An Assortment of Broken Bones
by BabyCharmander
Summary: A collection of one-shots in which Bad Things happen to our favorite characters. Genre varies by chapter. Chapters labeled by character and prompt. Final oneshot: "Slammed into a Wall" with Héctor and Ernesto.
1. Crisis Catch-and-Carry (Héctor, Imelda)

Hiya folks! I'm here with a new series of fics. I'm currently doing Bad Things Happen Bingo, and this is one of the fics I wrote for it. If you're wondering about _Neither Can You_ , no worries! It's currently being worked on, and I've been using a good tool to help me stay on track with my writing.

As this will be a oneshot collection, the title of each chapter will show the prompt and characters used. So if you're only interested in certain characters, check out the chapter titles!

I think that's about it. Here's the first fic:

 **Prompt: Crisis Catch-and-Carry**

 **Characters: Héctor and Imelda, pre-movie**

* * *

He was following her.

Imelda had come out into this part of the city to scout out a location for her _zapateria_. Right now she was still living with her parents, but one day the rest of her family was going to join her here. She hoped that wouldn't be soon—she wouldn't wish an early death on anyone, no matter how much she missed them—but the sooner she got her business established, the more comfortable her family would be when they joined her here. And the sooner she found a building she could use, the sooner she could set up shop.

But a certain _ex_ -family member was making it very hard for her to focus right now.

Refusing to look back or even acknowledge his presence, Imelda kept her back straight, her shoulders stiff, and her head facing forward. If she ignored him, perhaps he would leave her alone.

Even with the noise of the people surrounding them—it was early evening, and there were plenty of people out shopping and chatting—she couldn't help but notice the grating _clack, clack, clack_ of bones against cobblestone behind her.

A child she could understand, or even a teenager, but what sort of self-respecting _adult_ walked around barefoot? Let alone someone in their—how old was he—mid forties, at the absolute youngest? It wasn't exactly easy to tell when they were all bones, but his stupid voice and the condition of that mop on his head told her that the years had been kind to him.

How wonderful for him.

She had to focus on her task and get home, but every time she stopped to see if a building was for sale or for rent, she could hear _him_ stop, then quicken his pace to reach her. A few times she'd even glimpsed him reaching toward her, but she'd moved away immediately. While it would be easy to start a scene—to strike at him, immediately start yelling at him and grab the attention of everyone else around them—she reallydid not want to deal with him at all right now.

So she'd make it easy for him, and wait for him to give up.

Ten or so minutes into this, she thought she'd succeeded—she could no longer hear him following, and a cursory glance showed no sign of her ex anywhere, so she let her shoulders sag in relief. That had been simple enough.

Or perhaps too simple.

When she'd stopped at another potential building, running over the figures in her head (how long it would take her to earn the funds required to buy the building, if it would be large enough, if there were living quarters somewhere nearby), she heard it again.

 _Clack, clack, clack._

 _Ese idiota._

Imelda grit her teeth, picking up her pace to avoid the unwanted skeleton. He'd tried to catch her off-guard, and she'd nearly fallen for it.

This time, she would walk around some of the more crowded streets, hoping to lose him that way. It eventually worked—whether she'd actually lost him, or he'd backed off, or given up, she couldn't hear his footsteps any longer. Hoping this would be the last time she'd have to shake him off, she resumed her search for an available building.

Of course, that only went on for so long. Fifteen minutes later she heard the grating sound of bone against cobblestone once more, and knew that persistent fool was back to following her.

Thus continued the annoying game of back-and-forth. He at least allowed her some time to note the locations of some potential buildings—she'd give him that, but that was _all_ she'd give him. After a few more instances of this—of her shaking off her pursuer for a time before he inevitably returned—Imelda was getting tired and frustrated.

Still, she really didn't want to cause a scene. While causing a scene would be more than enough to drive him away for good, it would also mean people around her asking her what was going on, possibly siding with him, maybe even calling the police… and she was _not_ in the mood for any of that. But there was one other thing she could do—it wasn't ideal, but she'd be able to chase him off without drawing attention to herself.

Instead of taking a loop back around to the main streets, Imelda took another turn, heading to some of the less populated ones. There were still people here and there, mostly ones heading home from work, but she kept taking odd turns until she found herself in an empty street.

 _Clack… clack clack, clack…_

His steps were far more uncertain now. Good.

Stopping, she put a hand to her chin, pretending to be in deep thought, and waited. And sure enough, out of the corner of her eye she saw him reaching out toward her dress.

Her shoe was off in an instant, and she swung it at his hand.

" _Don't_ touch me!" Imelda spat, and Héctor yanked his hand away, yelping as though he'd been struck.

He hadn't—he'd pulled away fast enough—but his posture echoed that of a dog that had just been swatted on the nose. His shoulders were hunched, and his right arm was held close to his chest, his left hand gripping it protectively. In his right hand was a paper of some sort—likely whatever he'd been trying to slip into her apron pocket.

"What kind of idiot do you take me for?" she growled, pointing her shoe at him like a pistol. "You think I didn't notice you following me?"

"I-I…" Héctor's eyes were narrowed in a pained, guilty expression. "Imelda, _lo siento_ , I-I just—"

"You just couldn't approach me normally like a decent human being?"

That made him pause, and he exhaled through his nasal cavity, straightening his spine. "Not if you're going to threaten to _hit_ me every time I try to speak," he shot back.

"How do you expect me to respond when a strange man tries to grab me?" She reached down to replace her shoe, but never took her eyes off of him.

"Strange—? I- _Imelda_!" he cried, and she ignored the way his voice cracked. "I'm your _husband_!"

"A husband who left his wife alone with a child for _fifty years_." She swallowed, infuriated at the phantom feeling of her throat tightening. No, she wasn't going to get emotional over _him_. Not any emotion other than anger, anyway; she'd stopped crying over him years ago, and she wasn't about to start again now. "That's long enough to make you a stranger to _anyone_."

Now his anger and grief seemed to mix together as he took a step forward, fist curling around the paper. "I-I've been _trying_ to tell you, Imelda, I _wanted_ to come h-home—"

"That's what that letter says, isn't it?" she said, and he immediately stepped back, wide-eyed. "Don't look so shocked. Do you think I'd forgotten all the letters you wrote before? 'Don't worry, _mi amor_ , I'll only be gone for a few more days.' 'I'm sorry, Imelda, the tour's been extended a few weeks.' 'I miss you so much, but it'll only be another month now.'"

Imelda had begun pacing without realizing it, and she didn't care to stop now. "I remember those letters, Héctor. Do you know why? Because I read them again and again to Coco, when she asked me when her papá was coming home, over and over—"

"I-Imelda—"

"And the more times I reread them, the more I realized you _weren't_ coming home." Her voice was rough with grief, with the memory of her daughter's tears.

" _Imelda_ —"

"What makes you think I'd want to read _another_ one of those letters?!" She stopped pacing now to glare at him, and was even more infuriated to see that he kept looking from her, to something else, as though looking for a way to escape. "And now you're just trying to run away, _again_ —"

Frantically he put a finger to his mouth— _be quiet, stop talking._

"I will _not_ stop talking, Héctor, not until you—"

There was a deafening noise in the distance behind her, like a _hiss_ crossed with a ragged _snarl_.

Immediately she spun around, staring down the street at a hulking, glowing monstrosity that was now barreling toward her.

Something snagged her arm and began to drag her, and immediately her legs got to work at keeping pace. Fury burned in her chest when she realized just who had grabbed her, and she yanked her arm away. While part of her wanted to snap at Héctor to not touch her, this was not the time for fighting.

"What's wrong with that _alebrije_?!" she shouted over the loud scrabbling of claws against cobblestone behind her.

"Rogue," Héctor panted in reply. "It happens sometimes, no one knows why—"

"Why is it coming after us?"

"The shouting, maybe?!"

Now she wished she'd let Pepita follow her to the market. She hadn't known there was any danger of rogue spirit creatures—she'd only been here for a little over two months, and no one had spoken a word of such a thing.

Probably because they weren't expecting her to wander into a dangerous area in an attempt to lose her ex-husband—

Héctor grabbed arm again, and nearly pulled it out of its socket as he dove off to the side, into a narrow alley between two buildings. Imelda fell on top of him, but he was quick to scramble backward, still holding onto her. " _¡Apúrate!_ " he hissed urgently, and she crawled after him on all fours.

Just in time, as the _alebrije_ snapped its long muzzle right where she'd been lying, dribbling foam out of its mouth and into the dirt.

It was an enormous rat, or something like one—it seemed to bear fangs alongside the massive incisors, and had long whiskers like a catfish. While not as big as Pepita, it was still too big to fit its body into the alley, as much as it tried. It was scraping along the ground with its webbed feet and pink claws, wriggling its body, but its back end—which bore a large tail more closely resembling that of a fish of some sort—would not get through. Still it kept its head stretched out as far as it could, its glowing eyes casting a green light over Héctor and Imelda.

Looking past the ragged skeleton lying just beyond her, she found the other side of the alley to be blocked by a wall. They were trapped.

Potentially.

"Stay back," Héctor whispered, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "It'll give up, eventually."

Imelda did not stay back. She was not about to sit in a cramped space for any amount of time with her ex-husband, _alebrije_ or no _alebrije_.

Her boot was off, and it connected with the rat's nose before she could question herself.

Héctor shouted something, but Imelda heard none of it over the _shriek_ of the enraged _alebrije_ as its head swung off to one side, its purple nose flaring a bright pink at the impact. When it raised one of its webbed paws to rub at its nose, she swung her shoe again, striking the paw.

With another wild _shriek_ , the monstrous rat began to scramble backward, spitting and snarling all the while. Imelda kept up the assault, not getting quite as many strikes in as the thing continued to back away. Héctor was still yelling somewhere behind her, but she ignored him, marching steadily forward until the beast was finally out of the alley. At that point it seemed to have regained its senses and lunged forward in an attempt to snap at Imelda, but she was prepared, and struck at its upper jaw.

This time a glowing yellow fang flew out of the _alebrije's_ mouth, and it threw its head back with a chilling _howl_.

Wasting no time, Imelda shoved her boot back onto her foot and took off in the opposite direction, hoping the injury to the _alebrije's_ paw would be enough to keep it behind her until she got away. She wished Pepita were here…

…Wait, _Pepita_!

Sticking her fingers in her mouth, Imelda gave a shrill whistle, looking around for any sign of her own _alebrije_. She could still hear the rogue creature snarling behind her, but not running after her, at least. Maybe it had given up—she wasn't sure if she'd broken any bones in its paw, or if the bones of an _alebrije_ could even be broken, but it was her only hope until Pepita got here.

Just as she got past the next building, there was another shriek behind her, but it wasn't the _alebrije's_.

Risking a look over her shoulder, she found the rat pressing its good paw down over the foot of a certain skeleton, who was sprawled out on the ground and struggling to get back up. The _alebrije_ lifted its paw, allowing Héctor to scramble for a moment, only to smack its paw down on his foot again. That horrible creature—was it _toying_ with him?

"AGH—!" Héctor turned himself around (leaving his foot twisted backward, Imelda realized with a pang of disgust), sitting upright and pounding his fists against the _alebrije's_ webbed paw. "Let me go, _estúpido_ —!"

The _alebrije_ snapped at his skull.

It missed, for Héctor had yanked backward just in time, but still managed to knock the skull off of Héctor's shoulders. He caught it, swiftly re-attaching it to his spine, and struggled to pull away with even more effort—this time succeeding, flying backward with an odd _pop_.

Imelda was impressed for a moment until she realized he'd left his foot behind. _Idiota_ , how did he plan to run away now?

The _alebrije_ seemed just as confused as it lifted its webbed paw away from the detached foot. In an instant, the foot flew back to reattach to Héctor's leg, and as he rose to his feet he gave a cry of triumph—

—that immediately turned into a cry of pain as he fell back on his face.

 _Idiota_ , just as she'd thought. Now where was Pepita…?! She gave another shrill whistle, hoping her own _alebrije_ was close enough to hear. Yet she found herself continuing to look back to Héctor—to make sure that monster wasn't in danger of coming after _her_ instead.

"No, nononono!" Héctor scrambled on his hands and knees, trying to get away from the giant rat, who, if it had been amused at all before, was significantly less amused now. "Get away!"

The _alebrije_ was focused on Héctor, looking very much like it wanted to snap his spine in half and gnaw his bones down to nothing. All of its attention was on him, and it would be very, very easy for Imelda to get away unscathed—to keep running until it couldn't track her, or until Pepita finally came.

And yet before she realized it, she was halfway to the _alebrije_ , charging at him with an angry shout: "Go away, you oversized _mouse_!"

She didn't take off her boot, this time stomping down on the monster's only good front paw. Héctor was staring at her, his gaze a mix of surprise, amazement, and, annoyingly, _hope_. But she ignored it for now, scooping up the skeleton and throwing him over her shoulder as she took off down the road.

"I-Imelda…!" he stammered, sounding very nearly on the verge of tears, and Imelda gritted her teeth.

"I can't have it on my conscience to leave someone for dead, unlike a _certain no-good músico_."

That shut him up quite effectively, at least for a few moments, giving her plenty of time to focus on the screeching and the constant _thud thud thud_ of the beast behind her. Wondering how on earth it was still running on two injured legs, she spared a glance over her shoulder to find, to her dismay, the first paw she'd injured had already healed.

"Those things heal fast," Héctor remarked. It seemed the urgency of the situation had taken precedence over his emotions for now. "It's gonna catch up if we don't do something!"

Giving another shrill whistle, Imelda looked around the skies for any sign of Pepita—she must have been lounging about the courtyard at her parents' house, taking a late nap. Some mouser she'd become!

"There! _There_!" Héctor began flailing in her grip, and she nearly dropped him. "Left!"

Imelda automatically ran to her left, only to stop when she found herself faced with a building with boarded-up windows. There was no alley to cut through, no shortcut. "There's nothing here!"

"No, no, there's a hole there, toward the ground, see?" There was indeed a hole in the wall, far too small for any skeleton to fit through. "No one uses this building, and if we disconnect a bone or two, we can squeeze in—"

He couldn't be serious. "Absolutely _not_."

"No, I-I've done this before!" he said, which was less than reassuring. "We can hide in there until it goes away—"

"I am not tearing my body apart to hide with _you_!"

"It doesn't _hurt_ , and you can put yourself—"

"No."

" _IMELDA_!" His voice was loud and hiked in pitch, making her pause. "Would you just _listen_ to me for once—?!"

The alebrije was gaining speed behind her, and she did not care. "No."

"¿¡ _Por qué_ , Imelda?!"

"Because nothing good has ever, ever come from listening to the _idiota músico_ that promised me the world, only to leave me alone in it." And she let go, shrugging him off of her shoulder and turning around as he fell to the ground. She'd gotten him out of danger, and she wanted nothing else to do with him.

"NO! STOP!" Behind her, Héctor was trying to lift himself to his feet, only to give another cry of pain.

Ignoring him, she pulled off her boot again, marching toward the oncoming, furious _alebrije_.

Her ex-husband was screaming behind her, the monster was howling in front of her, and whatever would happen next, she was ready for it.

Which included the ferocious roar that exploded in the skies over her head, and the sudden cacophony of color and sound that came from another creature's diving immediately in front of her and on top of the feral _alebrije_. Though her bones shook as she replaced her shoe, Imelda watched the ensuing fight calmly. This wasn't the first time she'd seen Pepita take care of a rat, after all.

Said rat's neck was in Pepita's jaws, and the jaguar swung it around like a ragdoll, barely managing to avoid hitting any nearby buildings. She then flew up into the air, wings straining against the added weight, before dropping her burden. With a dramatic mid-air spin and a strike from Pepita's tail, the rat sailed down the street, skidding until it crashed into a wall.

Finally it got up onto its legs and scrambled away, yelping all the while.

" _Gracias_ , Pepita," Imelda breathed as her alebrije landed beside her.

The great cat purred, nudging her gently and licking her with her enormous tongue. In turn, Imelda ran her hand over the _alebrije's_ fur, scratching her just behind the horns.

"Y… you're okay."

Immediately the warm scene was shattered. Imelda tensed, and Pepita stopped purring, her ears turning back.

Keeping a hand on Pepita's head, Imelda turned to face Héctor, who was finally upright and braced against a wall. In spite of the fact that he stood a good foot or so taller than her, he shrank under her gaze, looking between her and her _alebrije_.

"Yes," she said, and Héctor shivered. "I am."

He could no longer meet her eyes, and his gaze fell to the ground.

A tangible silence fell over the three before he finally muttered something, his voice barely above a whisper:

" _Lo siento_."

Taking a moment to look him over, Imelda eyed his injured foot, which he kept off the ground. There were no cracks in the bone, as far as she could tell—it was not a grave injury, and he would recover, but not as fast as the _alebrije_ had. "Can you walk?"

Héctor looked away, seeming very interested in the paint peeling on the wall. He tried to lower his foot to the ground, but hissed sharply. "I can… make my way home," he said, a strained smile pulling at his mouth.

With a knowing look at Pepita, Imelda patted her _alebrije_ on the shoulder.

Needing no more instruction, Pepita strode up to Héctor, who braced himself further against the wall, as though it would grant some form of protection. Of course, it did no such thing, and Pepita launched her head at him, mouth open wide.

Héctor screamed for a long while before realizing that Pepita was not biting down. Imelda might have been a little amused had this been a situation with any other person, but not with him. Crossing her arms, she watched as Pepita turned around, striding up to her with Héctor hanging from her mouth like a ragged cat toy.

Imelda stepped closer until she was a foot away from his face. Once he finally looked her in the eyes, she addressed him: "You do not approach me. You do not write me letters. You do not chase me into shady streets where some crazy _alebrije_ tries to eat the both of us."

For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something, but he choked back his words, staring at the cobblestones below. " _Sí_ , Imelda," he said instead.

Something caught in her throat, but she swallowed it down, trying to smooth over the roughness in her voice. "…I suppose something good _did_ come from your abandoning us."

He flinched at the word.

"You taught me something, Héctor." She waited until he looked at her again, and then: "I learned that I don't need you."

And she stepped back, nodding to Pepita, who ducked down before springing into the air.

"Pepita will take you home, and you can get your foot taken care of," she called after him. "And after that _, don't come back_."

Waiting until Pepita was a good distance away, Imelda drew in a shaking breath, scrubbing at her eye sockets with the heel of her hand. It was a stressful day, that was all. There was nothing else to cry over.

You don't cry over things you don't need.


	2. Memory Loss (Héctor, Imelda)

Hiya folks! Here's the next oneshot. I forgot to mention in the last oneshot-a big thanks to PaperGardener and Jaywings for beta-reading these for me! Now, here we go.

 **Prompt: Memory Loss  
Characters: Héctor and Imelda, post-movie**

* * *

 _THUD._

It took the exhausted Riveras a few moments to register the sound above their heads. After a long, frantic night and a very long day of resting, recovering, and trying to figure out just what they were going to do with their unconscious guest upstairs, none of them were fully prepared for what they should do when he _did_ wake up. A few of them had tossed out ideas—Victoria had suggested that he'd probably want to leave again as soon as he was awake, while Rosita insisted that they should keep him here, at least until his injuries mended—but Imelda had decided that they would talk it out with him, once he was awake.

And given that the sound had come from two floors up, in the guest room they'd put him in, it sounded like it was time.

After marching up the two flights of stairs, Imelda forced herself to slow down before she entered the guest room they'd put him in. He was probably rather confused now that he was awake, so she'd have to be slow and quiet.

It was still difficult to say how she felt about her… husband? staying in her house. It had been so long since she'd wanted to be anywhere near him, she felt a little unnerved. It was entirely possible he didn't want to stay—she'd certainly done her job of making him feel unwelcome over the past several decades—and she would be fine with that. She'd lived and died without him all this time, never finding that she really, truly needed him—would it really matter if he stayed or not?

Shaking her head, she quietly stepped up to the door, but was surprised to hear the sound of frantic scrambling on the other side. Perhaps she'd underestimated how confused he would be—she probably should have kept someone there to watch him so he wouldn't wake up alone.

When Imelda opened the door, she found the lanky skeleton sprawled on the floor next to the bed, his lower body tangled in the bedsheets. He seemed caught in the act of trying to untangle himself as he looked up at her with an expression she couldn't immediately read.

Before she could say anything, he gave a frantic yell, trying to scramble backwards and only succeeding on hitting his shoulder against the bed frame. He gave a yelp of pain, his left leg spasming (Imelda remembered that he'd been limping on it badly all last night), and looked back up at her, terrified.

Wonderful—this was exactly what she'd been hoping to avoid. "It's okay, Héctor," she said, holding up her hands defensively and forcing herself to speak softly. "I'm not angry with you. _Cálmese_."

He was frozen for a moment, still looking horrified, but tried to relax. Probably a difficult feat, given he was sprawled out on a hardwood floor.

Hesitating for a moment, Imelda stepped up closer to him, concerned when he tried to back away again. "I promise, Héctor, I'm _not_ angry," she repeated, stooping down to lift him back onto the bed.

Immediately he stiffened, drawing in a sharp breath as she eased him back onto the bed, and she pulled her hands away quickly. Of course, he'd been shocked when she'd jumped into his arms the night prior, and she couldn't really blame him—given she'd yelled at him and swung her boot at him so many times before, it must still be strange to see her acting this way.

It felt strange for her, too.

Even so, she allowed herself a small smile. " _Buenas tardes_ ," she said. "How are you feeling, Héctor?"

"Uh… I'm…" Héctor bit his lip, his gaze darting around the room again before settling back on Imelda. "I, um… uh… w-wh—"

 _What happened?_ Imelda assumed he was trying to ask, and sighed. "A lot happened last night… But we sent Miguel home. He's all right." Watching his expression, she saw he only blinked a few times in response—it would probably hit him later. "After that… you were… flashing a lot, and then you passed out. I—we were all very worried about you. But Miguel… he must have helped Coco remember, because you stopped glowing soon after sunrise."

Héctor's brow furrowed as he looked off to the side, trying to process all of this.

"Don't worry about it too much," she said, and he gave an uncertain nod. "If Coco remembered you, she probably passed on your memories… so you'll be okay. You don't need to worry about disappearing anymore."

"Th… that's good," he breathed, an awkward smile quirking at the edge of his mouth. "Wouldn't, ah… want to go disappearing on you… so soon…?"

Well, he still had his sense of humor. She huffed out a quiet laugh. "You're probably feeling a bit sore, too, aren't you?"

He shifted around, drawing in a sharp breath when he moved his left leg, and settling stiffly back onto the bed. "I… m-must've taken a beating," he stammered, his eyes flickering over his form under the sheets. He glanced at his right arm, frowning at the tape on it.

Again, that wasn't particularly surprising—the way he'd been seizing up last night had looked terribly painful. "You'll need to rest for a while," Imelda said. "I can have Rosita go and pick up some painkillers for you, and maybe some proper splints for those broken bones. After that…" She paused, glancing aside, and saw him look back at her, still nervous. "You're… free to stay here, until you get better."

"A-ah, sorry, _perdoname_ , but where is 'here'?" he asked.

That _did_ surprise her a little, especially given the fact that he sounded slightly… _desperate_? "You're at my house, Héctor. All of my family lives here." _All of_ our _family_ , something within her corrected, but it still didn't feel _right_. She didn't even know if he really wanted to be part of this family anymore.

"I… I see." Héctor gave another smile, though an uneasy one. "It's… a nice house?"

Imelda stared at him.

It wasn't that the comment was entirely odd, but it was _off_. Given how much he'd been clinging to the idea that she still loved him, how many times he'd tried to talk to her before, she would've expected him to be ecstatic at being let into her house. Or… well, maybe he would be a little uneasy. But the way he was acting—it didn't feel like the same kind of uncertainty she'd seen in him before—the uncertainty about whether or not she'd accept him again, or ever consider him family. This seemed more like… like…

Héctor laughed, and Imelda gave a start. Clearly he was trying to pass it off as a genuine laugh, but something about it felt very forced.

" _Lo siento_ ," he said, that unsettlingly _off_ grin tugging at his face. "I… it seems a lot has happened, and… _perdoname_ , I know this is rude, but I… seem to have forgotten your name."

Imelda's chest seized up, and the room around her was numbingly cold.

" _What_?" she said, shocked at how soft her own voice was.

"Sorry!" he said, holding up his hands and wincing. "I-I'm very sorry, _señora_. I'm sure it will come back to me very soon! I… o-obviously a lot has happened! You said so yourself, _sí_?"

No, no, no. This couldn't be right. This—had she fallen asleep? She must have. She must have fallen asleep, and was dreaming this. It had been a long night and a long day—one of the others would wake her up when something happened.

"Oh! Uh… I'm sorry, I know this is awkward. But don't worry! I'll… I mean, if you could just… tell it to me again, your name, I mean, I'm sure that would jog my memory, _sí_?"

He couldn't have—it wasn't possible. It wasn't—

" _Por favor_ , if you could—"

" _Héctor_."

Her voice was cold, colder even than she felt, and its effect was immediate.

He scrambled backward, his shoulder thudding into the headboard and his chest heaving. The smile was gone, replaced with a grimace, and he looked utterly terrified.

Good. He should be scared, he should be ashamed for—!

Keeping her back rigid, Imelda glared down at him, fighting to keep both her frame and her voice from shaking. "You are going to stop this nonsense _right_ now," she said. "What are you doing, joking about this? Did you think I would find it funny, after all of that?"

"I-I-I— _no_!" he stammered. His bones, still loosely held together, were clattering as his entire body shook. "I-I promise, I'm not lying! _Lo siento_ , I didn't mean to forget, d-don't hurt me, _por favor…_!"

As quickly as her anger had taken over her, it fled, and she staggered back. "You… really don't remember…" The cold numbness was growing more intense, taking hold of her bones.

"I-I'll try to, I promise!" And that awful, awful _smile_ was back, she couldn't stand it—

Whirling around, Imelda started toward the door.

" _Señora—_!"

"Y-you need to rest," she choked out, and rushed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Immediately she regretted shutting the door so hard, but her feet were already carrying her away from the room, down the stairs, past the questioning looks of her family.

"Mamá Imelda?"

"Imelda, what happened?"

"Wait, is she—?"

"Imelda, what did he say?"

Imelda ignored all of them as she marched out of the house and into the courtyard where she found Pepita, pacing and agitated. Immediately her _alebrije_ looked up at her and closed the distance between them. With a throaty purr, Pepita lay down and spread one of her wings, inviting Imelda to her side.

Without hesitating she fell against the soft warmth of Pepita's fur, burying her face as the _alebrije_ covered her with the wing, shielding her from the concerned eyes of her family as she broke 'd never thought anything could hurt more than the realization she'd had years ago, when she realized Héctor was not coming home—when she knew that she'd lost him.

Now she finally had him back… and he didn't even know her name.

* * *

Once he was certain the skeleton woman wasn't coming back, he let himself fall back into the bed.

What in heaven was going _on_?

It certainly wasn't a dream, he knew that much for sure-dreams didn't hurt _this_ much. Or at least, he was pretty sure they didn't. Had it not been for the constant pain in his arm and leg and everywhere else, he would have been quite content to assume he was dreaming.

Funny, though. He couldn't remember ever dreaming before this… or remember anything else, for that matter.

Waking up to find that he was a skeleton—and an injured one, at that—was terrifying enough, and he was still reeling from it. But then that other skeleton had come into the room as if it was all perfectly normal, then had gone on like they knew each other, and needed no introduction, and there was all that about… glowing? Flashing? Disappearing? Someone named Miguel? And… Coco?

There was something about that last name that stuck out to him—though he wasn't sure _what_ —and he filed it away as something _vaguely_ familiar. Possibly. Maybe. Or maybe it was just a name he liked or— _dios_. Part of him wished he'd asked, but given the way that skeleton had reacted to the fact that he couldn't remember _her_ , he wasn't sure he wanted to know how she would react to _that_.

She'd been so upset, so angry, and… and hurt? Had he been close to her? He didn't know, he didn't _know_ —!

His breathing picked up again, chest heaving (did he even need to do that? did skeletons have to breathe?), and he forced himself to calm down. _It's okay, it's okay_ , he told himself, though he knew good and well that he was a liar, and a bad one at that.

…Okay, that was one thing he knew—he was a bad liar. That was… that was something. That was getting somewhere, right? What else did he know?

His name was… Héctor? That's what the skeleton had called him, and that sounded about right. Yeah, he'd go with that. His name was Héctor, and he was a skeleton for some reason. He felt like he shouldn't be one—like he should be… human? He was pretty sure he should be human, though he didn't know what he looked like as one. But it felt right… so why was he a skeleton? Had he become cursed? But that one woman was a skeleton as well… Were they… was he…

Was he _dead_?

The thought brought chills to him (how could he feel cold when he didn't have skin?), but he could think of no other possibility, other than the curse thing, and he didn't _remember_ being cursed.

 _Then again, you don't remember much,_ amigo _. That's not much of a help._

What else… he was at the skeleton woman's house, and the rest of her family was here. Were they skeletons, too? If they weren't, then he'd know for sure he was cursed. But if they were, then…

 _Dead…_ was he really… could he really be dead? How had he died?

The thought made him want to curl up on himself, but the second he tried, he immediately regretted it as a sharp pain shot through his left leg. _Ay—!_ Okay, so he had a broken leg, too. And a broken arm. And maybe some broken ribs, too? And he was pretty sure none of them had been treated properly. (How do you treat a _skeleton_?! She'd mentioned splints?)

And… and that was about it. He was a skeleton named Héctor who was also a bad liar, a lot of stuff had gone on recently, he'd broken some bones, he was either dead or cursed, and he was staying at this woman's house with her family. That was all he knew.

That and the name Coco. Still that name stuck out to him—it felt important, somehow, so he would try to remember that one.

And then… there was that skeleton woman…

Now that he thought about it, there was something familiar about her—like he'd heard her voice somewhere before. Especially when it was angry. Great… that could only mean good things.

He rubbed his forehead, only to flinch at the strange feeling of hard bone against bone. But no—she couldn't be someone who just… hated him, could she? She _had_ spoken kindly to him, too, and helped him back onto the bed when he'd fallen. Not to mention, she was letting him stay at her house, and was apparently willing to look after him. And when he'd admitted that he couldn't remember her, she'd seemed… more than just angry, she was hurt… _heartbroken_?

The thought made his heart (did he still have a— _? ay_ , forget it) ache as well _,_ though he couldn't place why. Whatever the case was, seeing her so upset didn't sit right with him. He needed to talk with her.

He needed to talk with someone, at any rate.

As if on cue, the door creaked open and two identical skulls poked into the room. He gave a start, but forced himself to stay calm. _Okay, definitely dead, then._

The twins stepped inside, one of them shutting the door behind them, and fidgeted for a moment before one of them spoke up:

"Héctor… What did you say to—"

"—Imelda? She was very upset."

So _that_ was her name. His phantom heart leapt when he noticed that it stood out to him, much like _Coco_.

This was good. This was something.

He could do this.

" _Hola_ ," he said with an uneasy smile, and ignored the glance the twins exchanged. "I can tell you in just a moment, but first, I need to ask a few questions…"


	3. Panic Attack (Miguel, Enrique, Luisa)

Hiya folks! Thanks to Jaywings and Doodle for beta-reading this one.

(By the way, the next chapter of _Neither Can You_ is currently being beta-read and will be out soon!)

 **Prompt: Panic Attack**  
 **Character: Miguel, post-movie**

* * *

"Geez, I haven't gone swimming in so long!"

"Me either! The… the river is safe though, right, guys? It's not gonna… flood, is it?"

" _Pffft_! Yeah, Antonio! It totally looks like there's gonna be a downpour that'll flood the river, what with all the sunshine."

"Yeah, Félix is right. Besides, my parents wouldn't let us go if it weren't safe."

"Right, Miguel, that's why your cousin had to come along."

Miguel rolled his eyes as Félix snickered. "C'mon, Rosa already teased me about that…"

"I'm just messing," Félix replied, grinning down at him. "You turn thirteen next month, right? Then you'll be old enough to come down here by yourself."

"I _hope_ so!" Abel said, hefting up the large case he was carrying. "Then I can stop babysitting you guys."

As they made their way out of the village and toward the river, Antonio looked back in curiosity before shuffling closer to Miguel. "What's that Abel has anyway?" he whispered, a little too loud.

Brightening, Abel picked up his pace to walk next to the kids. "It's my accordion! I'm gonna practice while you guys splash around."

" _What_?" Félix leaned closer to get a better look at the case. "Since when do _other_ people in your family play music, Miguel?!"

"Since the ban was lifted?" Miguel shrugged. "Music's in our blood! I'm not the only one who likes it."

"You guys are crazy," Félix said with a grin.

Laughing, Miguel returned the smile and looked ahead toward their destination. School had only just gotten out a few weeks ago, but life in the Rivera household had been hectic regardless, with Miguel helping take care of his new baby sister, and absolutely everyone getting involved in settling the legal disputes about Papá Héctor's guitar and the stolen songs. And on top of all that…

A coldness settled over him as he recalled the nightmares he kept having—usually about things like falling from a great height, or seeing Papá Héctor start flashing and seizing up, or seeing his bones show through his flesh again… At least once every week or so he would find himself waking up in a panic, not sure if he had awoken in the Land of the Dead, or if Papá Héctor was okay, or if the curse had come back. But every time he woke up, Dante would immediately be at his side, licking his face and sitting with him until he calmed down. Sometimes even a scrawny tabby cat—who he was pretty sure was actually Pepita—would be laying next to his chest, purring up a storm.

So far his parents hadn't found out about the nightmares, and he'd rather keep it that way. His mamá and papá had been helping him a lot with the music stuff, and they were really busy taking care of Socorro, too—he didn't want them to think he was getting upset over some dumb bad dreams. The nightmares weren't real, and everything was okay now.

…Though they still made him feel scared, sometimes. Every so often he'd find himself checking his arm to make sure he wasn't seeing bone, and a few times he'd sent Dante out with a short letter to Papá Héctor, just to make sure he was still doing okay. He knew he was just being dumb, but he wished he'd stop being so… stressed out about this, or whatever.

Which is why he was really glad to finally have a day where he could just goof off with his friends. It'd been way too long.

"I can see it!" Antonio shouted, yanking Miguel out of his thoughts.

"Race you there!" And immediately Félix took off running full speed toward the river, already yanking off his tank top as he did so.

Miguel almost ran after him when Antonio tugged on the back of his shirt. "Just wait," he said. "He can jump in first and see if the water's too cold."

"Good idea!" Grinning, Miguel bolted after Félix, keeping his body bent slightly forward and his palms flat so he could run faster.

"W-wait! But I said—"

"We can still race him!" Miguel called over his shoulder, and sure enough Antonio was soon at his heels.

"Be careful!" came Abel's voice from a short distance back. "I don't wanna have to fish you guys out!"

Up ahead, Miguel saw Félix still charging toward the river, but already he was getting closer. If he focused just a bit more…!

Sure enough he wound up neck-and-neck with his friend, who turned to look at him, startled. His surprise caused him to slow down just enough for Miguel to get ahead, putting him in the lead. There was the river, a stone's throw away, and…!

Miguel came to a stumbling halt right at the river's edge, staring into the water. He only registered the fact that Félix had jumped in when he felt the water splash against him, and gave a start, stumbling back.

"Hey, you still did it!" Antonio was gasping for air as he stumbled up to Miguel and looked down at Félix. "How's the water feel?"

"Feels fine, if you're not too much of a wimp to jump in."

"We're not wimps! Are we Miguel? …Miguel?"

"Huh?" Miguel shook his head, snapping out of his daze. "Uhh… no! O-of course… not." Hesitantly he looked back down at the water, but something held him back, which was ridiculous. He'd been in this river before, and it wasn't scary. Maybe a little if you lost your footing on a rock or something, but he knew how to swim. But then, the last time he'd had to swim was…

No, no, that was dumb. It wasn't like this was that _cenote_ or anything. This was just the river, and Félix was swimming in it just fine. He'd come here to have fun. There was nothing bad or scary here.

"Then what're you waiting for? C'mon!" Félix tossed up his arm, splashing water at both Miguel and Antonio. "Think _La Llorona_ 's gonna come get you or something?"

Antonio was hurriedly slipping out of his tank top while kicking off his sandals. "We're coming! C'mon, Miguel."

Fidgeting with the hem of his tank top, Miguel watched his younger friend cautiously slip into the river. He wasn't pulled under, nothing was trying to grab him, he wasn't struggling to stay afloat… There was nothing to be afraid of, and Antonio was always more nervous about stuff than he was. So what was he so scared about?

"Miguel?"

 _Stop being stupid,_ he thought, carefully pulling off his sandals and setting them aside. _There's nothing to be scared of!_ But telling himself that wasn't doing much for his nerves…

That's when he remembered— _You've got to loosen up. Shake out those nerves!_

Miguel shook himself the way he remembered Papá Héctor doing. After tossing his shirt aside, he took a breath and charged toward the bank, leaping into the river with the best _grito_ he could manage.

Water splashed all around him, and he began to flail until he heard his friends cheering at either side of him. Even though his nerves weren't entirely gone, he felt better. Félix and Antonio were already splashing each other and occasionally dipping below the surface to see what they could find, and back on the shore, Abel had his accordion out and was practicing _The World Es Mi Familia_.

It was a sunny, hot, cloudless day, the water was nice, and as Miguel joined in on his friend's games, he finally began to relax.

As the boys played and goofed around over the next hour or so, Miguel found himself forgetting even why he'd been so scared to join in in the first place. And yet… even then, he still felt something nagging at the back of his mind, a fear of some kind tugging at his heart, but he did his best to ignore it.

"…and then, _Luchador_ Félix goes for his final move!"

 _SPLASH!_

Miguel successfully swam out of the way as Félix lunged into the water, but Antonio wasn't so lucky. "Aaagh, get o—" His words turned to gargling as the older boy tugged him underwater. He only held him under for a few seconds before surfacing again, and Antonio coughed and sputtered.

" _VICTORY_!" Félix exclaimed as Antonio made a face at him and Miguel began cracking up.

Wiping his hair out of his face, Antonio pouted at Miguel. "That wasn't funny!"

"Yeah it was!" Miguel faked flailing and splashing around in the water, doing his best impression of his friend. "'Aaaah! Get offfff— _glubglubglub_ …"

"That's not what I sounded like!"

Félix snickered, swimming back away from Antonio and closer to Miguel. "Yeah, you're right. It sounded more like— _THIS_!" And without warning he spun around, grabbing Miguel by the shoulders and shoving him under the surface of the water.

He couldn't breathe.

He felt himself plunge into the water, but the guitar had filled with water so quickly he couldn't surface. Struggling, he tried to get the guitar off of his back, but couldn't find the stramp, he couldn't find it, he had to get above the surface, he was going to drown, he was going to drown—

The sound of the water was roaring in his ears and he couldn't tell if he had surfaced or not—he was coughing and choking so he must have but he couldn't breathe, he had to get out of the pool, he couldn't breathe—

Strong hands grasped his shoulders, and he screamed.

" _NO! NO—_ " He began to cough again, his throat hurt, it burned, he couldn't breathe, and _Señor_ de la Cruz was still pulling at him— " _NO_! LET ME GO! LET ME _GO_!"

"Miguel, _stop_!"

Ernesto's voice didn't sound right but he wasn't letting go, and Miguel kicked with all his might, tugging at his arms, thrashing, trying everything he had to get away. "LET ME GO! _PLEASE_ , _SEÑOR_! I-I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I-I just need the blessing, I won't tell anyone, I-I just want to go home, _please_!"

More shouting—something about someone getting help—Ernesto must have been calling for his guards, he was going to go back into the _cenote_ , no no no—!

"NO! Don't put me back there! No! I promise I won't tell, please—!"

"M-Miguel, stop it, no one's putting you anywhere, you have to calm down!"

He couldn't calm down, he didn't want to go back into the _cenote_ , he wanted to go home, he just wanted to go home…

" _Ruff, arf—owowooooooo_!"

The howling wasn't echoed like it should have been, but he heard it nonetheless, and he could hear the sound of clawed feet scrambling against the ground. "D-Dante…?!"

In moments Dante was jumping at him, whining and licking his face. Miguel clung to the dog like a lifeline, shivering in spite of the warmth Dante provided, and the world gradually came back into focus. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his throat felt rough and sore as his chest heaved. He could feel the sun on his back, already starting to dry him off, and the grass beneath his legs. He wasn't in the _cenote_ , or the pool, or the river.

…He hadn't been in the _cenote_ or the pool. Those were an entire world away… and so was Ernesto.

Nearby, he could feel the gazes of a few people—Abel, and either Félix or Antonio, he wasn't sure. Cringing, he pulled closer to Dante, trying to avoid looking at either of them.

"Miguel?!"

Immediately he recognized the voice of his papá, and looked up to see Enrique running toward him and carrying a towel.

" _Ay, gracias a dios_ ," Papá muttered, stooping down to wrap Miguel in the towel. "What happened?"

"F-Félix pushed him under the water," Antonio stammered, shifting around somewhere on the bank.

"He was all flailing around!" Even though Abel was behind him, Miguel could hear the gestures he was making. "I pulled him out, but he kept shouting—"

"I-I'm okay, Papá," Miguel sniffled, using a corner of the towel to wipe at his face. He wasn't sure where Félix was, but he was glad he wasn't here to see him like this. Though he'd already seen him splashing and screaming when nothing had been wrong, and…

Papá pulled him into a hug and lifted him into his arms. "I was worried about you, mijo," he said, brushing Miguel's hair out of his face. "Do you want to go home?"

Nothing was really wrong and it was dumb for him to be crying and there was no real reason he shouldn't just go back to playing with his friends, but he still found himself nodding anyway.

"All right. Let's go home."

As Papá carried him, Miguel heard Dante trotting after them, as well as two other sets of footfalls. Risking a look back, he saw Antonio looking up at him in worry. Suddenly Miguel remembered what had gotten him into this situation to begin with, and looked away. "S-sorry for laughing at you."

"It's okay," Antonio replied, and gave an awkward laugh. "I-I probably did sound kinda funny, there."

Miguel smiled, but didn't say anything after that, and no one said anything on the way back to town.

* * *

After what felt like an eternity later, Miguel found himself huddled on his bed in dry clothes, Dante lying next to him with his head in his lap. Miguel instinctively ran his hand over Dante's wrinkly skin, occasionally scratching him behind the ears. Outside, he could hear the voices of different family members, talking too softly for him to make out what they were saying. The deepest voice was Abel, who had a weirdly anxious quality to his voice.

Miguel could only imagine what he was telling them.

"I didn't want them to know, Dante," he muttered, and Dante's ears perked up, tail thumping against the bed at the sound of his name. "What am I supposed to tell them?"

Dante's only response was to lick his hand. Frowning, Miguel wiped the dog spit onto his quilt and leaned back against his pillow. "I guess you don't know, either."

Another voice spoke up, sharper and angrier than the others— _Abuelita_. Oh great, Abel told her, too?

"…if someone touched him then I'll—!"

" _Mamá, shhhh_."

Oh no, was Félix in trouble now…?! Miguel winced at the mental image of his friend being struck by a shoe. Yeah, he was a little mad at Félix for doing that to him, but he wouldn't want _Abuelita_ going after him. Félix would probably never want to talk to him again!

Seeming to sense Miguel's distress, Dante whined and snuggled closer. Not knowing what else to do, Miguel sat up, wrapping his arms around the dog's body.

Knock, knock.

Dante barked, hopping off the bed and pawing at the door. At first Miguel wanted to call him back and tell whoever was at the door that he was trying to sleep, but… Dante was his spirit guide, wasn't he? Maybe he wanted Miguel to let them in.

"Come in," he said, rubbing his arm as he sat cross-legged on the bed.

The door creaked open, and Dante bolted out. Once the dog was out of the way, Miguel's parents stepped in and shut the door. Socorro must be with one of his _tías_ , he thought.

" _¿Estas bien, mijo?_ " Mamá asked. She took a seat beside him, placing a hand on his back.

" _Sí,_ Mamá," he said, leaning into her. "I'm okay now. Félix just scared me, is all." When Papá moved to sit next to him, he suddenly sat upright. "Oh! Tell Abuelita that she doesn't need to be mad at Félix! W-we were just playing too rough. He… I wish he hadn't pushed me under like that, but he didn't mean to scare me."

"Félix isn't in trouble," Papá said with a shake of his head. "But…"

Oh no, here it comes. "I-I'm okay, really!" He held up his hands, grinning in what he hoped was a reassuring way. "I shouldn't have even been that scared, I mean, I've gotten dunked before, a-and the river was safe, there was nothing really wrong, I was just—"

" _Shhh, mijo_." Mamá rubbed her hand on his back, and he sighed.

Feeling his papá's gaze on him, Miguel looked at him, stomach sinking at the worry on his face. It didn't help when Papá finally spoke up: "Abel… told us you were shouting some things."

Oh, right, he'd been shouting when Abel must have pulled him out. He'd thought Abel was Ernesto, and… oh. "Um… y-yeah, I was," he said, rubbing his arm uneasily. "I was just freaking out and yelling, that's all."

Papá didn't look convinced, nor did Mamá. "He said you were shouting at someone that you wanted to go home, and that you wouldn't tell about something."

Miguel chewed on his lip; how was he supposed to explain any of this? He hadn't told them about his adventure in the Land of the Dead, and he knew they wouldn't believe him if he did. They'd probably tell him to stop making up stories, and to stop getting so scared of stupid bad dreams, and…

"Miguel…" Papá drew in a breath, looking him in the eye. "Did something happen, when you ran off on the Day of the Dead?"

Miguel tensed, and his mamá resumed rubbing his back. "It's okay," she said. "You can tell us anything. We won't be mad."

His heart was pounding and he felt very, very sick to his stomach.

It wasn't even like everything that had happened that night was _bad_. He'd gotten to meet the rest of his family, and he'd saved Papá Héctor, and played music with him, and brought him back to the family… And even now, he was sneaking messages over to his great-great-grandpa through Dante, and he got to talk with his family that way. And he'd brought music back to the family! So many good things had happened!

But… the bad things kept sticking to him, and he didn't know _why_. He wished he'd stop having nightmares about falling, and the water, and de la Cruz, and… and how would they believe any of that?

"Miguel?"

Drawing in a deep breath, Miguel shut his eyes. He couldn't tell them about the Land of the Dead. There was no way they'd listen. But… he felt like he had to tell them something. They probably weren't going to leave him alone until he did. Maybe…

"W-well… wh-when I ran off, um…" He looked up, seeing his parents nodding for him to continue, and swallowed. "I… I went to the cemetery, to get the guitar."

"Why did you go there?"

"B-because I wanted to play in the plaza, but I didn't… didn't have an instrument. So I thought…" He shook his head—that part wasn't important. "Wh-when I got to the cemetery, I… I got scared, because I thought I saw ghosts."

His mother laughed softly as she brushed her hand through his hair. "Maybe you were seeing the ancestors coming to visit."

 _That's_ exactly _what I saw_ , Miguel thought, but didn't say it. "I heard you calling for me… but um, I guess I was so freaked out that I just tried to get away."

"We were looking for you all night," Papá said, and Miguel was relieved that there was no anger in his voice. It had been over half a year since it had happened, anyway. "How long were you running around there, without us spotting you?"

"Did someone…" His mamá hesitated. "Did someone grab you at the cemetery?"

"Huh? No!" Miguel gave them a bewildered look. "No, I mean… the guy at de la Cruz's grave was looking for me, I think, but I just ran away from him. No one grabbed me." Not in the Land of the Living, anyway. No one _could_. "I did feel really bad about breaking into there though."

For some reason his parents seemed relieved. He wasn't sure why, but he wouldn't complain.

"So you ran away from the cemetery?" Papá's brow furrowed. "Where did you go?"

"I… I ran around to a lot of places! And I was thinking about… about why our family banned music, and uh… how I'd said I wanted to be left off the ofrenda." Knowing what he knew now, the thought still made him feel awful. Poor Héctor had tried _everything_ to get back onto their ofrenda, while he'd said he didn't care if he was on one or not. "I… I felt really bad about everything. And I knew I had to come home."

"Did anything else happen?"

Miguel frowned. A lot else had happened, but nothing his parents would understand. But… "Well… wh-when I was trying to get home, I wound up… falling into the water." He didn't specify _what_ water, so it wasn't really a lie, was it? "And I got really, really scared, and I thought I'd never make it home!"

"Is that why you were so scared in the river?" Mamá asked, and he nodded.

"Yeah, it… reminded me of when I'd fallen in," he muttered, and shifted around uncomfortably.

His parents looked at each other for a moment before looking back at him. "Is there something else you need to tell us?" Papá asked.

Tensing, Miguel began rubbing his arm again. "It's… really dumb."

" _Mijo_ , if it's bothering you, it's not dumb." His mamá pulled him to her side again, rubbing his shoulder. "You can tell us."

Looking back at his papá, who nodded at him, he sighed. No use hiding it now. "It's just… I-I've been… having bad dreams. About that night." There, he'd said it, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "I know it's dumb—I know they're not real, and everything's okay, but I keep dreaming about falling, and the water, and about S— _ghosts_ , and it's really stupid, and—"

To his surprise, his papá embraced him, and his mamá did the same. "That's not stupid at all," Papá said. "That night had _all_ of us scared."

"And you're not the only one who has nightmares about it."

Miguel jerked away from his parents, looking at them wide-eyed. "Wh- _what_?"

Papá and Mamá both looked at each other sadly. "We both get nightmares about that night," his papá explained. "We have bad dreams about you running off, and we can't find you again."

Miguel shook his head. "B-but I'm right here! I'm not gonna run off again!"

"We know, _mijo_ , and your papá and I are both very glad about that. But sometimes when something scares you a lot, you have nightmares about it for a long time."

"And sometimes we get scared when stuff reminds us of those things," Papá went on. "When Félix ran into the workshop and told us something had happened to you, all I could think of was when you ran away, and we couldn't find you."

"You're not dumb for having bad dreams, or getting scared if something reminds you of something bad. That happens to everyone, _mijo_." Once again, his mamá brushed his hair out of his face. "You can tell us whenever bad dreams are bothering you, or if you feel scared. We won't be mad."

Miguel had no idea what to say, but he felt like a weight had been lifted from his chest. They weren't worried about what had happened to him anymore, and they weren't telling him he was too old to still be having nightmares, and…

Feeling his mamá's thumb brush across his cheek, he looked up at her. He realized now that his breathing had quickened, and he wasn't really sure when he'd started crying. Frantically he wiped at his tears, sniffling. "I-I'm sorry I scared you," he said. "I didn't mean… I-I never want to run away again…!"

" _Shhh_ , it's okay. We'll be okay, mijo, and you'll be okay, too. We promise, we won't be mad at you if you're scared. You can always tell us anything you need."

" _G-gracias_ , Mamá." Miguel buried his face into his mother's side, sniffling, and didn't object when he felt his papá's hand on his back.

He wasn't sure when he would try to tell them about what really happened that night, or if he ever would. He also still didn't fully understand why he was still scared about stuff that couldn't hurt him anymore.

But he knew his family was there for him, and for now, that was enough.


	4. Caught in a Storm (Héctor, Coco, Imelda)

Hiya folks! Thanks to Jaywings and Tomatosoupful for beta-reading this one.

 **Prompt: Caught in a Storm**  
 **Characters: Héctor, Coco, and Imelda, pre-movie  
**

* * *

"Mamá! _Mamá_!"

"Not now, Coco. Mamá is busy."

"Mamaaaa…!"

Héctor looked up from his songbook, pencil in mouth, to see his daughter tugging at Imelda's dress. His wife was in the middle of drawing water from the well near their house—a task she'd always insisted on doing on her own—and he'd stepped outside to be with her, bringing Coco with him so she could run around the yard.

It felt like just yesterday that Coco had learned to walk, and it still warmed Héctor's heart to think of her taking her first steps toward him and Imelda. It had felt like such a wonderful moment at the time—and it still was!—but at the same time… well. Everyone else in town had warned them that as hard as taking care of a baby was, having a baby that could _walk_ would make things much, much harder.

As it turned out, they weren't wrong.

Coco seemed to have a knack for toddling on her little legs straight into trouble, getting into things she shouldn't, wandering off when they looked away for two seconds… and, currently, bothering Imelda when she was in the middle of something. Right now, she was tugging repeatedly on Imelda, who was struggling to focus on her task. And on top of that, the little girl's voice was growing shrill. "Mamamamamamammamama—!"

" _¡Ay!_ " Imelda cried, heaving up the bucket of water and setting it on the ground. "Coco, _not now_!"

Immediately Coco's face scrunched up as she began to whine, stomping her foot—signs of an oncoming tantrum.

Quickly slipping his book into his pocket and sticking his pencil behind his ear, Héctor hopped up from his spot on the nearby bench and hurried up to his daughter. " _Shhh_ , _shh_ , Coco, let's not bother Mamá right now," he said, crouching down to meet her gaze. "She's working very hard."

Coco continued to whine, stomping her feet. "No! Nooo!"

Looking up at Imelda, Héctor bit his lip to see her rubbing her forehead. "Would you like some help with that, _mi amor_?" he asked. "I can take the water in, and—"

"No, it's not that," she said with a sigh. "I just… have a headache right now."

"Oooh, a headache, huh?" Héctor rose to his full height, wrapped an arm around his wife, and drew her closer to place a kiss on her forehead. "Better?"

Imelda laughed softly, resting her head against his chest. "A little."

"Mamá! Ma _maaaaaaa_!" And Coco was back to tugging at her mother's dress.

Feeling his wife sigh against him, Héctor leaned his head against hers. "Go in and get some rest, Imelda," he murmured. "I'll take Coco for a little trip around town, eh? Get all the grumpiness out of her before we go home."

" _Gracias, mi amor._ " Imelda pulled away from him, but stood up on her toes to give him a light kiss on the lips. Even the small gesture was enough to send him reeling—he nearly missed her stooping down to kiss their daughter on the cheek. "Mamá is going to take a nap. You be a good girl for your papá, okay?"

"No! _Noooo_!"

Sighing, Imelda stood back up, patting Héctor on the shoulder. "Papá will take you out to play, _right_?"

"Eh?" Shaking himself out of his blissful daze, he looked down to see Coco pouting up at him. "Oh—OH! _Sí_ , Imelda! Go on and rest, now." He drew his wife into one last hug before she playfully pushed him away.

While she went to bring the water inside, Héctor knelt down again to Coco's level. "Your Mamá is very tired, Coco, and whining isn't going to make her want to play with you."

Coco whined anyway, stomping her feet and pouting at him.

Putting a hand to his chin and rubbing his thin goatee, Héctor studied his daughter seriously. "Now, what's with that look?" He almost commented on just how much of Imelda was in that expression, but decided against it while she was still in earshot. "What sort of face is that to be making?"

"No!" Coco cried, and Héctor nearly laughed. Right now, that was the only word she knew that would allow her to express disapproval.

" _Mira_ , _mira_ , Coco, Papá can make that face, too!" He then pouted in a similar manner to Coco, furrowing his brow and sticking his lower lip out.

An unmistakable look of confusion crossed his daughter's face before she resumed glaring, and began pushing on his knee. "Noooo!"

"No?" Héctor reared back, adopting a look of mock confusion. "Am I doing this wrong? _A ver, a ver…_ how about _this_?" He then leaned forward again, pouting in an even more exaggerated manner.

That utterly baffled look returned to Coco's face, along with a glimmer of amusement in her eyes, and Héctor knew his plan was working. Even so, she tried to keep pouting, and gave his knee another shove. "No!"

"No? All right. How about… _this_!" Once again, Héctor put on the most exaggerated pout he possibly could, leaning in close to Coco. It was a close battle, but not quite enough—she was still struggling to keep up her bad mood, fighting to keep from smiling. That was it—time for his secret weapon!

Héctor pouted at Coco for a few more seconds, and crossed his eyes.

The effect was immediate—Coco burst into giggles, all traces of her bad mood finally gone.

" _There's_ my little _angelita_!" he exclaimed, laughing right with her.

"Again, again!" she cried, and Héctor obliged her, crossing his eyes and sending her into another fit of giggles. This went on for another minute or so, before Héctor stood up, rubbing his eyes.

" _Ay_ , that's enough of that now, Coco," he said, still chuckling. "I need to see straight if I want to take you to the plaza!"

Clapping her hands and cheering, Coco followed him as he strode up to the bench he'd been sitting at earlier to pick up his old guitar. He slung the worn guitar strap over his shoulder and grinned down at Coco, reaching down to take her hand. "Want to go see what Tío Ernesto's up to?"

"'Nesto!" Coco exclaimed, putting her hand in her papá's.

With that, Héctor led Coco out through the gate and into the street. It wasn't exactly a sunshiny day, and perhaps it was a little humid, but it was still perfectly fine weather, so in all likelihood Ernesto was out in the plaza and playing for tips, as usual. He'd probably be happy to see him, especially with Coco coming along too. They would play a few songs together while watching Coco and generally have a good time.

But to his surprise, when they reached the plaza, there was no sign of Ernesto playing anywhere. Héctor frowned, looking around to see if his _hermano_ was off flirting with one of the girls that ran the fruit cart instead of playing his guitar, but no—he simply wasn't around. Not only that, but the plaza wasn't terribly busy, either. That was… odd.

"Papá?" Coco tugged at his hand, looking around the plaza curiously.

Héctor frowned. He could still sit and play guitar anyway, but even if a crowd came to watch, he couldn't play by himself and watch Coco at the same time—she'd wander off. But they couldn't go back home, either—even though she was in a better mood now, Coco would try to wake Imelda up for sure.

Looking down at her, he rubbed his chin in thought. "Hmm, looks like your _tío_ isn't here, _mija_ ," he said, and she looked up at him. "What do you say we go somewhere else?"

Coco stared at him for a moment, then tugged her hand out of his and reached up toward him. "Up?"

He nodded, stooping down and scooping her up in one arm and holding her on his hip. "All right. Ready to go?"

" _¡Sí!_ "

Carefully shifting his grip on his daughter, Héctor turned away from the plaza, heading for the edges of the town instead. There was a nice little spot just past the gates where he and Ernesto used to go play guitar or write songs. (Well, Héctor did most of the writing, but Ernesto at least _tried_ to help.) It wasn't too far away, it would be nice and peaceful, and he could easily keep Coco from running off there.

The trip through town was mostly uneventful, save one moment when Coco tried to squirm away from him to go after a stray silver tabby cat. It had crossed their path and hissed at them before running past them in the opposite direction. Héctor had no idea what that had been about, but there was no way he was going to let Coco run after some filthy stray.

Once they were out of town, it was a short trek up to the hill. (And thank goodness for that—between his daughter and his guitar, Héctor's back was starting to ache.) Once they reached the top, he set Coco down, groaning. " _Ay_ , you're getting waaaay too big for me to carry, _mija_ ," he said, slinging his guitar off his shoulder and straightening his back with an audible _crack_. "But here we are!"

Coco looked around the hill—it wasn't terribly high, and sported a couple trees at the top for shade—but seemed happy enough. Immediately she rushed over to see what was on the other side of the trees.

Héctor set his guitar down against the tree and followed Coco as she toddled around. But when Coco looked back and saw him following her, she let out a giggle and started to run. Grinning, Héctor gave chase, walking a little slower than he normally would have in order to stay right behind her, and holding out his hands like claws. He made a growling noise, and Coco let out a shriek, followed by more laughter.

They kept up the chase for a few minutes before Héctor finally swooped down to grab his daughter, picking her up and spinning her around before kissing her face repeatedly with exaggerated " _mwah_ " sounds. Coco was laughing the whole time, and a bit more willing to sit still by the time he finally set her down. He then stooped down to pick up his guitar and sling it over his shoulder. "How about some _música_ , _mija_?"

Coco bounced where she sat. "Poco Loco!"

"That one? All right!" Letting out an exaggerated _grito_ , he started playing the song, dancing around his daughter as he played.

And so they spent a good half-hour or so enjoying music together, with Héctor playing her any song she wanted and Coco occasionally hopping up to dance with him. Héctor felt like his heart would burst every time she tried to sing along—she would grow up singing songs with him and Imelda, and he couldn't wait to see what kind of beautiful voice she would have when she grew older. For now, though, he would keep appreciating the little moments like this.

Gradually Héctor's voice grew tired, but so did Coco as her bounciness began to wane—she was starting to nod off. Héctor heaved a sigh, wishing he'd brought a canteen of water with him, but it didn't matter all that much. With Coco tired out, now, they should probably start home. "Ready for a nap, _mija_?"

Coco, now seated toward the edge of the hill and looking up at him, yawned widely. But suddenly she blinked, slapping her left hand against her right arm, as though she'd been bitten.

Concerned, Héctor stepped closer to see what happened when he felt it, too—the faint splash of a raindrop directly on his nose. "Whoops. We should get home." Quickly he slung his guitar onto his back, and stooped down to pick up Coco. Already the rain was picking up, more and more drops hitting him and showing no signs of slowing down. He could even hear the hollow _plunks_ as they fell onto his guitar—

 _His guitar!_

"No, no no no," he muttered, his heart hammering in sudden panic. That's why Ernesto wasn't out in the plaza—he didn't want to get his guitar caught in the rain and risk ruining it, but Héctor hadn't even been thinking about the weather.

Coco whined, tugging at his shirt, and a worse fear struck Héctor. What if Coco got sick in this rain, and…?!

"It's okay, it's okay, _mija_ ," he whispered to her, carefully making his way down the hill. "Papá will get you home." He just had to get down this hill, and the town wasn't that far away, and—

His foot caught on a particularly slick patch of grass, and he nearly tumbled. _No, no no, don't fall, don't—!_ Fighting to keep from crashing forward, he overbalanced and fell hard on his backside. "Agh—!"

" _Papá_!" Coco cried in alarm, clinging to him harder. But she was okay, it was all right—she was just scared, not hurt.

"I'm okay, it's okay," he said quickly, carefully pushing himself up to his feet to get down the rest of the hill. There were a few moments where he nearly slid again, but he finally managed to make it down to the bottom of the hill. At that point, the rain was already splashing over the both of them in great big drops, but at least the worst was over. _Agh,_ estúpido _—why didn't you think about this? Why didn't you pay attention to the weather?!_

Coco was whining again, and goodness she was heavy, but Héctor ran as fast as he could back toward the town's gates. He just needed to get home, and he knew Santa Cecilia like the back of his hand. He could get home fast, he could do this…!

Charging through the rain and trying to get past the slick grass, he finally made it to the gates of Santa Cecilia. But now the rain was even worse, having gone from large drops to a near-solid wall of water. Squinting, he tried to see as he hurried down the street, his shoes sloshing through puddles, but the horrid wind and rain did nothing to help. To make matters worse, a roar of thunder rumbled through the air, lightning flashing several seconds afterward in the distance.

And on top of all that, Coco was _screaming_.

Héctor nearly froze where he stood; he could hardly see in this rain, but if he didn't get home soon, he had no hope of saving his guitar—the sole thing that earned him money for his family. Yet all he could focus on was Coco, his little _angelita_ , who was completely terrified, clutching his drenched shirt in a deathgrip and bawling into his chest.

He had to do something.

Glancing off to the side, he confirmed what he'd hoped was there, and rushed up to the closest building, hugging the wall as best as he could with the guitar on his back. The eaves of the building were just big enough for him to hide under, keeping them sheltered from the rain.

" _Shhh, shhh,_ it's okay, _mija_ , it's okay," he whispered, stroking his hand over her soaked, short braids. Still Coco continued to wail, her face buried into his chest. "No, no, you're okay. We'll be safe here for now. Don't worry…"

Thunder rumbled again, louder and closer now, and Coco wasn't much quieter.

Slowly Héctor slid into a seated position, drawing his legs up and his arms around his daughter, cocooning her from the storm around them. Gradually her screams faded, but she was still sobbing, even as Héctor rocked her gently.

Not knowing what else to do, he began to hum.

His music always calmed her—when she was fussy, when she was tired but didn't want to sleep, and even now, when she was frightened. He didn't have a particular song in mind, this time, merely humming whatever notes came to him first. All the while he held her close to his chest, keeping his head lowered over hers so she could hear his voice, his music over the storm.

Gradually Coco's sobs softened into occasional hiccups, but Héctor kept singing. While rain around them did not stop, it seemed to fade from their world as the two of them were lost in their music.

Héctor wasn't sure how long he sat there, shielding Coco and humming to her, but eventually the sound of distant thunder broke through into their world. Looking up, he found that, while the rain was still falling all around them, it was not nearly as harsh as it had been before. He had no idea how long it would stay that way.

Finishing his spontaneous song, he slowly eased himself to his feet, wincing at the pain in his back. He stepped out from under the eaves, brushing his hand over Coco's hair when she whimpered into his chest again. With that, he resumed his journey down the street, his feet marching toward home on their own accord.

But just as they finally turned down the street their house stood on, a figure nearly charged over Héctor, and he jumped back with a startled cry.

"Where have you been?!" Imelda cried, pushing her damp hair out of her face. "I woke up to the sound of thunder, and you weren't home yet, and I was worried that—!"

"Not now, Imelda," Héctor whispered, and cringed when he felt how rough his voice had gone. Coco whimpered again, snuggling closer to him.

Seeing that, Imelda nodded softly, placing a hand on Héctor's shoulder as they finally made their way back to their house.

The three of them were shivering as they stepped through the door, especially Héctor. Imelda was quick to take Coco from him, hurrying her into the bedroom to change her into dry clothing.

Héctor, meanwhile, shrugged his guitar off his shoulders with a groan, and turned away from it, almost afraid to look at its condition. He could feel water sloshing around inside it, and tipped it to let the water pour out over the already-damp floor. Finally he forced himself to look at it, grimacing at how thoroughly soaked it was. This old guitar had already been through a lot _before_ getting caught in a rainstorm. What was he supposed to do with it _now_?

Searching the house, he found a dry cloth, and set to work wiping down the worn instrument. He was so wrapped up in his work that he gave a start when he felt a hand at his shoulder, and turned. There, carrying a newly-dressed Coco, was Imelda, also in a new dress of her own. She looked from the guitar and back to Héctor, her eyebrows drawn up in concern, and Héctor felt his heart sink as he shook his head. " _L-lo siento_ , Imelda, I don't think—"

Imelda placed her finger over his mouth. " _Shh_. There's nothing to be done about it now." Rubbing her hand over his back, she rested her head on his shoulder. "You and Coco are home safe. That's all that matters right now."

He nodded, feeling a numbness that had little to do with how cold he was. "I… I'll go to buy a new one tomorrow. We'll be okay. I don't need to eat that much."

"Go change, Héctor," was all she said, and he obeyed, shakily rising to his feet and trudging to the bedroom.

When he returned in a clean outfit, he found Imelda making coffee in the kitchen. Coco was dozing on the couch, and Héctor took a seat next to her. Her hair was still damp, but otherwise she'd been thoroughly dried and cleaned. He pulled her to his side, and she didn't protest much, only whimpering a little as she quickly settled against him.

Moments later, a thick blanket thwumped over Héctor's shoulder. As he worked at unfolding it and draping it over himself and Coco, Imelda sat at their daughter's other side. She held out a mug of coffee for Héctor, which he gratefully accepted, and she took a sip of her own.

There the three of them sat, sharing their warmth as they listened to the sounds of the remainder of the storm passing over.

When the time came to put Coco to bed, Héctor was the one to carry her to their room and tuck her into their bed. (She didn't have a bed of her own yet—perhaps when she was bigger.) As he took a seat next to her, he felt her forehead for perhaps the dozenth time that evening, but it still remained a normal temperature. It was a weight off his shoulders, but there was still another burden remaining.

"Song?" Coco murmured, looking up at him expectantly. Thanks to her earlier nap, she wasn't quite as tired as she should be, but usually a song or three was enough to fix that.

Héctor gave her a lopsided smile. "Well… I can sing for you, but we'll have to do it a little different this time." When she gave him a confused look, he sighed, but refused to drop the smile. "We'll have to do it without the guitar, okay?"

"And why is that?"

Startled, Héctor turned around to see Imelda leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. Normally she let him and Coco have some privacy when he sang lullabies to her—she never intruded like this.

Remembering she'd asked a question, he cleared his throat. "Uh, well… the guitar is…" He looked from her to Coco, not sure he wanted to let his daughter know that the guitar was likely wrecked beyond repair.

"That guitar was old as can be and was going to wear out eventually," Imelda said with a sigh. "But I was hoping it would last until the end of November."

Héctor blinked. "That's… weirdly specific. Why then?"

Imelda threw her head back, rolling her eyes, and pulled something out from behind her. Before he was able to register what it was, she shoved it into his arms.

A shining white, new guitar.

"Happy early birthday, _mi amor,_ " Imelda said, bending down to kiss him on the cheek. "Now go play for her."

Héctor's breath caught in his throat for a long moment, and then his chest began to heave. He could only stare in amazement at the gorgeous instrument, wondering just how long Imelda had been saving money to buy him this. Silver markings framed the body, and the head was decorated by gorgeous skull markings, and even the pegs—

" _Song_?" Coco demanded, and he looked up to see her eyeing him, clearly wondering why he was taking so long to play for her.

Letting out a laugh that nearly turned into a sob, Héctor rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand. " _Sí_ , Coco, I'll play you a song." Automatically his hands got to work at tuning the guitar, and soon enough he was plucking at the strings, coaxing even more beautiful notes out of this guitar than he'd ever played in his life. Coco wouldn't notice, not until she was older, but Imelda knew, and…

 _Ay_ , he loved his family.


	5. Worked Themselves to Exhaustion (Imelda)

Hiya folks! I've been chipping away at this one for a while and finally got it done. Thanks to Jaywings and Doodle for beta-reading this for me. Hope you enjoy! (BTW, if you saw my author's note on my other fic, the family emergency is being managed. Everything's not 100% okay yet but we're sorting things out.)

 **Prompt: Worked Themselves to Exhaustion**  
 **Characters: Imelda**

* * *

A week after Héctor left with Ernesto on the train out of Santa Cecilia, Coco's left shoe began to fall apart. Ever the frugal one, Imelda had set about to fix it on her own, and found she wasn't too bad at the task. This got her thinking, and as soon as she was able, she wrote to Héctor about her desire to learn to make shoes.

Héctor had been more than supportive of the idea. Not that she'd ever needed his approval, of course, but it always made her smile to see his support, even in written form. He'd even filled the letter with little drawings of shoes, which had gotten a laugh out of Coco. A shoemaker and a musician—they would be quite the pair!

He would send letters detailing the people he and Ernesto met, the places they would see, and the things they did. But of course, he would always go on about how much he missed his girls and how he couldn't wait to see their faces again. He even wrote separate letters for Coco, usually on short scraps of paper and with big lettering for her to easily see. He would even send her poems and song lyrics, which delighted her to no end. (Sometimes Coco would ask Imelda to try to sing the new poems he would send, but it usually ended with the two of them laughing at Imelda's woeful lack of songwriting talent.)

Every time he sent his letters and earnings, Imelda would immediately write up a letter to send back to him. It was an annoying process, having to mail it to the inn it was mailed from, with instructions to forward it to the next hotel (Héctor would always leave a note with the hotel staff to have the mail forwarded), but it made sure they both kept up with each other. Imelda was able to tell Héctor everything that happened while he was gone—about how she had been doing with her shoe-making apprenticeship, how Coco was doing and how much they missed him, how they'd been visiting regularly with her parents and brothers, and so on. She'd let Coco dictate a bit of the letter, too, which she could imagine made him smile.

But it wasn't the same as his _being_ there.

Coco was always asking Imelda about when Papá would come home, and unfortunately, the answer was always changing. Along with all the other things Héctor wrote to them about, there would also be the occasional update about their tour—invariably, about how it was going to be extended. A few more days, a few more weeks. Another month.

While Héctor had never been a doormat, he'd always had trouble saying no to Ernesto.

Still, Imelda admitted, he was working hard for them, and so was she.

She'd already started preparing to set up shop, but it was more difficult work than she'd anticipated—and not just in terms of paperwork and preparing the supplies. Even with the money Héctor sent her, the supplies she had to buy went a bit over her budget. Despite this, she was determined to keep going with one less meal a day for herself, as long as Coco was fed.

When the first orders came in, Imelda was nearly overwhelmed. She knew how to make all of these kinds of shoes, of course, but now she wasn't apprenticing under a skilled shoemaker—she was working on her own. Still, she wasn't going to let Coco know just how overwhelmed she felt. Instead, she would send Coco off to visit her grandparents and _tíos_ while she worked alone at the house. Years from now she would probably think back to this moment and laugh at how overwhelmed she'd been at a handful of simple orders—she knew this, because she wasn't going to give up. She knew things would be bumpy at the start, even if it was a bit _more_ than she'd expected, and she knew that it wouldn't be quite so hard once Héctor was home.

Several days later the orders were done and paid for, and the money came in. And sure enough, so did Héctor's earnings. It still didn't quite make up for the cost of starting the business, but that was okay—she could manage like this for a bit longer until more money came through. She could keep going until Héctor returned.

But as the weeks wore on, so did the tour.

"Don't worry, _mi amor_ , I'll be back for _Dia de Muertos_."

 _Dia de Muertos_ passed. Imelda lit candles for Héctor's parents alongside the ones for her own relatives, and went back to work on her orders.

"It really shouldn't be for much longer. I'll definitely be there before my birthday."

His birthday passed. Imelda and Coco wrote him birthday wishes and mailed them off to him.

"I'll put my foot down this time. I'll take the train home, and be there before _Las Posadas_."

 _Las Posadas_ , _Nochebuena_ , and _Navidad_ all passed, and the letters had stopped coming.

When she and Coco came to stay at her parents' place over the holiday (and after she managed to get away from explaining the shoe-making process to her brothers for the dozenth time), her mother drew her aside. "No man with any respect for his family skips _Navidad_ ," she said. There was a long pause, as Imelda struggled for the words to say. "I told you this would happen event—"

"He's coming back," Imelda snapped back, and that was the end of it. She didn't speak with her mother for the rest of her time there, and the next day, she and Coco went home.

Imelda was just getting back to her work orders when Coco stepped up to her. "When _is_ Papá coming back?" she asked, and Imelda paused.

"I don't know," she admitted, staring at the shoes numbly. In all honesty, she'd answered her mother out of sheer stubbornness, though she knew that there had been some truth to her mamá's words.

He'd said he would be home. He'd said he would put his foot down, and take the train home.

That was the last he'd said.

As she mulled it over, a worry came over her—what if he _had_ taken the train, but something had happened?

The next opportunity she got, she headed for the train station, demanding to see the records of the passengers from Mexico City to Santa Cecilia. After a bit of prodding, the workers at the station relented, and she scoured the records for any mention of Héctor's name, starting from the day he'd sent the letter and onward.

Nothing.

He'd never boarded the train, like he said he would. That meant one of two things: he'd changed his mind, or he'd been lying, and she wasn't sure which was worse.

Imelda found herself partially saddened and partially angry at the thought, but there was another worry that gnawed at her: if he wasn't sending letters, he wasn't sending earnings, either. While part of her was angry at herself for thinking about money when her husband was surely the more important thing, she reminded herself firmly that their _daughter_ was important, too. And even if Imelda could go without dinner every day, Coco could not.

So later that night, after tucking Coco in and after making some last-minute touches on her current orders, she did not immediately go to bed. Instead she sat at her desk with a pen and paper and began to work out the budget for her meager savings and earnings.

With the cost requirement for her shoemaking supplies combined with the cost for food, the money she made was simply not enough to cover both. The supplies were too important—she needed them to carry out the business. Feeding Coco was important as well, and making her go without a meal was unthinkable.

Two hours into the night, Imelda could find no other solution—she would have to limit her own meals again. She'd been learning to deal with going hungry in the evening, and she could learn to deal with a little less food. (Or she could ask her parents for help, but that would mean admitting she was wrong and that she could not take care of her family, which she refused to do.)

As the weeks went on, her limited budget and limited meals wore on her more than she'd anticipated. She was finding herself growing more and more tired, but people were pleased with her work, and the orders kept coming in. This should have meant more money, but she couldn't keep up with the orders on her own, and the work continued to pile up.

And to twist the knife, Coco was _still_ asking about Héctor.

"Why hasn't he sent a letter, Mamá?" "Can you read me another letter?" "When is he coming home?"

When, indeed.

The thought made her angrier the more she thought about it—why _hadn't_ he come home? Why would he stop sending the letters? Stop sending _money_? Did he not care if Coco starved? Did he truly care more about his stupid friend, his stupid tour, his stupid _music_ more than his family?

Imelda tried to put the thoughts out of her head—she had to focus on Coco and shoes right now. She had to, or there was no way she would survive.

But surviving was getting harder. It seemed sometimes that no matter how much work she did, it never got any easier, and the pile of orders never grew smaller. She was making shoes, ordering supplies, shopping, making food, and taking care of Coco, and it felt like it never ended.

At least before, relief would come in the form of Héctor's letters—until she got to the parts stating that his tour was being extended yet again. Now she didn't even have that, and instead of the thought of her husband bringing her joy, it brought her anger. That no-good _músico_ —how could he leave her and Coco like this?! But… fine. If that _cabrón_ thought he didn't need her anymore, _fine_. She didn't need him anymore, either, and she could take care of this business and raise Coco all on her own.

Imelda let her anger fuel her. It was all she had left.

But even stubbornness and anger were no match for the slow, steady stream of trouble that continued to chip away at her. Deep down, she knew it was only a matter of time before she would finally crack.

One day she sat at her work table, eyelids drooping as she worked on a pair of wingtips that was giving her trouble. They never had before, but in her exhaustion she'd made a mistake with the leather and had to start over on the left shoe. Even though she'd gone for some time with her adjusted diet, she still felt hunger gnawing at her—the eggs she'd had this morning didn't make up for her small lunch and skipped dinner. On top of that, she found herself nodding off—sleeping through the night on an empty stomach was never easy—and had to constantly force herself to focus. She was so _tired_ , and so _hungry_ , but these shoes weren't going to finish themselves, and money wasn't going to keep coming in the mail.

No thanks to that no-good, stupid musi—

"Mamá, when is Papá coming home?"

The half-finished shoe struck against the table with a _bang_ , followed by loud clattering noises as several tools fell to the floor.

"He's not _coming_ home, Coco!"

Imelda was standing, though she couldn't remember getting up, and her mind didn't immediately register the expression on her daughter's face as she went on: "That man does _not_ care about us anymore, and he is _never_ coming home!"

It took her a moment to realize that Coco was taking several steps backward, eyes wide and hands covering her mouth. She then realized that she'd shouted at her daughter, and had struck the table, and had been glaring down at her, and—

Fiery anger was quickly drowned out by the cold numbness of shock. " _Mija_ —"

"No!" Coco cried, taking a more deliberate step back and shaking her head. "Papá _said_ he was coming home! He is! He's going to come back!"

Angry tears stung at Imelda's eyes, and she tried to keep them away. _Stupid musician, look what you've done to your daughter, sending her those letters and making her hold onto a foolish hope for so long…!_ She shook her head, and she spoke again, not quite as harshly as before: "That man _lied_ to you, _mija_. He stopped sending letters months ago. He's _not_ coming back."

"No! _No_!" And Coco bolted, running past Imelda and out the door. " _PAPA_!"

"Coco!" Imelda cried, turning to run after her, only to step on one of the tools she'd knocked off the table and fall to the ground. She dropped to her knees and caught herself on her hands, scraping both palms against the floor, and shakily rose to her feet. The world seemed to spin for a moment at the thought that she'd lost her husband, and she couldn't lose her daughter, too.

Fighting against the pain in her knees, she rushed out the door and looked around the courtyard, but Coco was nowhere in sight. Furthermore, the gate had been pushed open, just enough for a small child to get through.

" _COCO_!" Imelda shouted, yanking the gate open and looking down the road one way, then another.

She didn't have to search long; a short distance down the road, Óscar and Felipe were crouched down, trying their best to soothe a sobbing and frantic Coco. Imelda heaved deep sigh, grateful that her brothers had apparently decided to pay her a visit today.

She walked toward the three at a careful pace, wary of making Coco run off again. As she got closer, she could make out some of the words her daughter was babbling: "G-gonna be back… o-o-on the train… s-s-said he'd be…"

Felipe was the first to look up at Imelda, giving her a questioning look as he rubbed Coco's back. She only shook her head—she didn't want to talk to them about this while Coco was there to hear. Seeming to sense this, Felipe wordlessly nudged Óscar, who patted his niece's back before standing up.

While Felipe picked up Coco, Óscar approached Imelda, looking her up and down. He seemed to note the scuff marks on her apron and red patches on the heels of her hands, but his gaze lingered on her face. "What happened?" he asked quietly.

In spite of the shame she felt in her chest, she refused to look away from Óscar's gaze. "I… I snapped at Coco," she admitted, hating the way her voice was beginning to waver.

"She wanted to go to the train station," Óscar said, looking back to Felipe, who was bouncing Coco around. The little girl gave a soft, tired giggle. "I… guess she thinks Héctor will be there."

"He won't be," Imelda said, finally turning away. "He never will be."

Seconds later, she felt Óscar's hand on her shoulder. "You're working too hard, _hermana_. Don't think no one's noticed." He paused. "…Even Coco."

Imelda gave a start, glancing over her shoulder.

Óscar nodded. "She told us that you told her that… that adults don't need to eat as much as little _niñas_."

"It's true," she said, looking her brother in the eye. "Coco's a growing girl." But, seeing his unconvinced look, she heaved a sigh. "I've been cutting some of my own meals. But I'll be all right, once I earn enough money to—"

"How long have you been going like this?"

Imelda paused, not because she didn't want to answer, but because she'd been doing it for so long she'd legitimately forgotten when she'd started. It wasn't after the letters stopped—no, it was sometime before that, when… "…Since I started the business."

" _Imelda_!" Óscar cried, throwing out his arms. Some distance behind him, Felipe and Coco looked up in surprise before her brother quickly went back to distracting her. "You're going to kill yourself like this!"

"You're one to talk!" Imelda snapped. "I can't count the times you two would get hurt from your absurd experiments!"

Óscar flinched back, arms wrapped around his middle. "W-we're just… worried about you," he said, looking away. "You… you haven't been yourself since Héctor left."

Slowly she realized that she'd snapped at someone, _again_ , and rubbed at her forehead. " _…Lo siento_ ," she said, heaving a sigh. "I didn't mean to shout."

"It's okay," he said, though his tone didn't say the same. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him motion to Felipe, who came closer. "Listen, um… We weren't sure if this was the right time, but—"

"—Óscar and I were thinking," Felipe went on. "Mamá and Papá have been wanting us to get a job for ourselves, and we're—"

"—both very interested in the whole shoe-making process." Now Óscar was starting to perk up. "You won't have to—"

"—teach us much, since we've already—"

"—memorized it from what you told us."

"Just need to watch it a few times."

"Two."

"Or three."

"And then we could join you!" they finished.

Coco, still in Felipe's arms, giggled at the two's back-and-forth speech. She still had dried tear stains on her face.

Imelda looked from her daughter to her brothers, thinking this through. Her brothers would be two more mouths to feed, but she knew they spoke the truth when they insisted they were fast learners. If they could help her with work, she could finish the orders faster, and take on more orders at once… meaning more pay. Meaning she might not have to skip meals any longer.

It was hard, knowing that Héctor would probably never come back, but…

Looking at her two brothers staring at her eagerly and her daughter looking up at them, she knew—that musician may have abandoned her, but her _family_ had not.

She was going to be okay.


	6. Setting a Broken Bone (Héctor, Cheech)

Hiya folks! This oneshot took... waaay too long to get done, but it's finally here. BIG thanks to Jaywings and PaperGardener for beta reading this one for me. Enjoy!

 **Prompt: Setting a Broken Bone**

 **Characters: Héctor, Chicharrón, pre-movie**

* * *

A metallic groan filled the air, waking Héctor up from his daze. He wasn't sure what time it was, or even what _day_ it was, but he was very quickly aware of the overwhelming pain in his leg. In the dim light of the holding cell, he could see the scotch tape barely clinging to the two broken portions of his left tibia, the larger bone in his lower leg—the tape had lost most of its adhesiveness a day or so ago, and he was frankly amazed it had lasted this long. With a tired moan, he turned in his cot, trying to shift the broken leg to a more comfortable position, only to belatedly realize why that was a bad idea. The two broken ends scraped against each other, and his voice pitched up into a shriek that quickly tapered off.

He'd done quite enough screaming over the past few… days, or however long it had been since _Dia de Muertos._

Not long enough, given he wouldn't be able to try again until next year. _Ay._

Past the heavy cell door, he could hear hushed voices, followed by a faint clinking. It was too hard to think past the pain, so he thought nothing of it until the door creaked open.

Lifting himself up on his elbow, he blinked at the two guards who stared down at him. They were looking from his face and back to his injured leg, the older one of them frowning and the younger one wincing. The first leaned over to his partner, trying to whisper to her, but Héctor caught what he was saying anyway: "You see what I mean?"

" _Hola,_ " Héctor said, forcing a tired smile. "Can I help you, _señor y señora_?"

"Uh… no," the younger guard said, glancing away briefly. "We're just here to tell you that you're free to go."

"…Go? Right now?" He reached up to scratch his dirty wig, eyes narrowing as he tried to think past the fog of pain. Had it really been… a month? Was that how long he'd been here? That was how long he was supposed to be here, he was pretty sure. Or maybe the corrections officer had been exaggerating?

"We're letting you out early, Rivera," the older guard said, pulling his hands behind his back. "Under normal circumstances you'd carry out the full sentence, but…"

"You need a doctor," the younger guard blurted out. "Seriously. We can't keep you here in this state."

Oh. A doctor, huh? Aside from the fact that he wasn't particularly keen on a man he didn't know rearranging his bones…

He lay back down in his cot, snatching his hat from the floor and setting it over his face, smiling sadly. "Well, it's a nice thought," he said, managing a laugh, "but that sort of thing costs money that I don't have."

"Regardless, she's right. We really can't keep you here like this, and frankly, we don't want to."

"Can't imagine why." He resisted the urge to wiggle the foot on his bad leg in demonstration. Of course, he could guess what they were talking about—he wasn't exactly deaf to the pained sounds he was making. Or maybe they could just feel sorry for him, but he doubted it.

" _Basta_." He heard the guard's bones clatter in what was probably an exasperated gesture. "You're free to go, Rivera. Let's get you out of here."

" _Sí_ ," Héctor replied, with no small amount of bitterness. "Just give me a moment to hop on up." In truth, he wasn't exactly upset about being let out early, but… if they were actually concerned about his well-being, they might have done _something_ to help him with his leg.

At least they hadn't made him deal with those awful cuffs—the ones that had _some_ sort of magic in them that locked one's bones together. He usually had to deal with those things to keep him from pulling himself apart to slip through the bars, but this time they hadn't bothered—not like he could get anywhere with a snapped tibia.

Biting his lip, he re-adjusted his hat and carefully eased himself up into a sitting position, staring down at the two halves of his left tibia. Hm, this would be a challenge. He reached down to peel off the remainder of the tape first, which should have been an easy task. Most of it wasn't sticky anymore to begin with, having quickly gotten covered in dust and ash, but as he pulled it away a small part caught against the jagged crack in the bone, and he jumped in his seat with a startled yelp.

"D-do you need help, Señor Rivera?" the younger guard stammered, and he gazed up at them.

The female guard was new—mid-to-late twenties, it looked like, possibly even recently-dead, given he hadn't seen her before. Her hair was in a long, dark braid that went past her waist, and she didn't wear lipstick. She stood oddly tall compared to the other guard—Juan, he recalled the name suddenly. Juan was big and stocky (or as stocky as a skeleton could be), but not much in the height department, whereas this girl looked like she might be barely shorter than Héctor. She kept looking from her partner and back to him, and Héctor couldn't tell if she was uncomfortable with the situation in general, or just uncomfortable with him.

Probably the latter. No one felt comfortable around the dusty old souls from the shanties.

"I'll manage," he grumbled finally, tossing the wad of tape away and looking down at his leg again. He wasn't going to put weight on his tibia—he wasn't sure if he could wreck his bones permanently, and he didn't want to find out. So… he'd have to be a little more creative. At first he almost tried to grab for half of his tibia, but it wasn't set right, and trying to pull it off that way would be disastrous. Instead he plucked off his kneecap, ignoring the sounds of disgust from the guards, grabbed the bottom half of his broken tibia with one hand, and with his other hand carefully eased his already-loose fibula off of his leg. The bottom half of the tibia, no longer connected to anything, came loose, and Héctor set it to his other side, wincing when he placed it on the bed. Next came the upper half, which he gently tugged away and set next to its mate, before reassembling the rest of his leg.

With his femur and kneecap connected to the fibula, which was connected to his foot, that should give him… _some_ support, right?

"Wh… what is he doing," the younger guard whispered, not quite quiet enough for Héctor to miss it.

"What I can," Héctor replied simply, pressing his hands into either side of his cot as he eased himself to his feet. He kept most of his weight on his good leg and braced one hand against the wall. Even then, his bad leg was already wobbling. The fibula was _definitely_ not made to bear weight by itself, but maybe it would last him until he got to Shantytown. He pulled his hand away from the wall, and, when he didn't immediately fall, forced a smile. "See? You can learn to make due when—"

 _Pop._

Héctor flailed as he tried to lean toward the wall again a second too late, and quickly loosened his joints as his body tipped over on its left side. A few bones were knocked out of place at the impact, but were otherwise unharmed, and he grumbled as he willed himself back together, careful to keep the tibia away. Right, he'd forgotten that fibula didn't like to stay in place anymore.

"Enough of this," Juan growled, grabbing Héctor by the arm and hoisting him up. "Yolanda, you take his other side."

The female guard—Yolanda, evidently—shot Héctor an apologetic look as she took his other arm, lifting it around her shoulders. Hesitantly she glanced over at the broken tibia sitting on the cot, and reached down to pick up one of the pieces, looking like someone who had to pick up a particularly filthy piece of trash.

Héctor immediately shuddered, clenching his teeth. " _Ay_ , be _careful_ with that—!" he whined, and Yolanda responded by tucking the broken bone under her free arm, and doing the same with the other half, thankfully keeping the broken ends away from each other.

So here he was, being hoisted by two guards out of the holding cell early, with his tibia being carried by one of the guards and rubbing against itself.

It was going to be one of those days.

Keeping his head down and his hat shading his face, Héctor let himself be dragged out of the building, biting his metaphorical tongue against the "friendly" jeers a few of the workers there threw at him: "Ah, there he is!" "Ey, gotta keep yourself together." "That was some show on _Dia de Muertos_! Could'a used more fireworks, though." "Tough luck, huh? Maybe next year, _amigo_!"

Yes, maybe next year he would cross so he didn't have to stick around to hear their _estúpido_ unfunny jokes. But finally he was out of the building and out onto the streets, and Juan shrugged him off of his shoulders. "All right. You can head on home, now."

"What?" Héctor blurted, snapping his head up to give the guard an incredulous look. "You're just gonna leave me here like this?"

"This is the Department of Family Reunions, not a transportation service. The gondola station's two blocks away, trolley is three."

"Ah, _sí_ , let me just walk over there on my _one leg_!" he snarled, but the guard had already turned away and was walking up the steps. Heaving a frustrated sigh, he turned to the other officer, who was looking away. "What? Aren't you gonna leave, too?"

"Uh, well." Yolanda re-adjusted her grip on his broken tibia, causing him to hiss at the mild pain. "My shift ends in…"—she glanced at her watch—"six minutes anyway. I… I can help you get to the station, if… if you…"

"So you don't have leaving a _pobre_ soul like me to fend for himself on your conscience?" he muttered, and immediately winced when he realized he'd said it aloud. "I… _lo siento_. Yes. I would… like that."

Seeming to ignore his earlier comment, she gave him a look over, her gaze lingering on his bad leg (the fibula barely clinging to his femur and kneecap) before she pulled him a little closer. "Be careful," she said, and began walking. "Where is it you need to get to?"

Rattling off the tower address and the station that would take him the closest to his section of Shantytown (and it was never close), Héctor put the rest of his focus on keeping his bad leg from falling apart again. That fibula did _not_ want to stay connected, and if he moved his leg just wrong, it was going to come apart again.

"You're sure I can't take you to a doctor, _señor_?" Yolanda asked, drawing him out of his thoughts.

"No," he said quickly, staring down at the cobblestone beneath his bare feet. "I don't have the money, and anyway, they don't…" Realization struck him, and and he shut his eyes as a numbness filled the void where his stomach once was. "They don't… treat people who can't heal."

The guard went silent after that, and Héctor resumed his focus on keeping his leg from falling apart, or trying to. _Don't think about it right now,_ he told himself as the numbness slowly began to morph into something more dangerous that would not help him right now. _It may still be okay. They can probably still do something for you back home. There are people there worse than you, and they get through, right? You'll be okay._

" _Señor?_ "

Blinking, Héctor shook himself out of his thoughts and found himself staring down at his solitary foot.

…Wait…

"You… seem to have dropped something back there."

 _Ay_ , this was going to be a long day.

It took a few tries to get his fibula reconnected with the rest of his leg, but they managed, and Yolanda continued to walk him down to the gondola station. They reached it without incident, and Héctor dug through his pouch to scrounge up the coins necessary to pay for the trip, relieved he had enough for that, at least.

" _Gracias_ ," he murmured to the girl as she helped him onto the bench in the little car and handed him the two halves of his tibia. But when she turned around to head out, he blinked. "Are you not coming?"

"No, sorry, _señor_ ," she said, not turning to face him. "I… I need to get home to my family."

"Ah." _Wish I could say the same._ " _Adiós_ , then."

Unsurprisingly, the other passengers in the gondola seemed to be keeping their distance from him, some of them practically sitting on top of each other to avoid getting too close. The ones across from him deliberately looked away, or stole glances at his leg or his disconnected bones when they thought he wouldn't notice. It was something he should probably be used to by this point, after so many decades of bearing dusty, yellowed bones and tattered clothes, but some part of him still ached at the thought that he'd become someone that no one wanted to be around.

Not even his family.

Heaving a shaking sigh, he tipped his hat to shadow his face, so he could at least pretend to not notice their stares.

While it was nice to rest his bad leg for a while, at least, the break was short-lived, and the gondola came to its final stop. Héctor stayed put, letting everyone else shuffle out around him so there wouldn't be any witnesses to the spectacle of him trying to get out on one leg. As he waited, he stared down at his fibula, wondering if he could coax it to stay in place somehow. He had no more tape on him, however (he'd only grabbed as much as he could from the correction officer's desk before being incarcerated), and not a lot of time before the conductor threw him out. He wrung his hands for a moment before catching a glimpse of his right sleeve—the worn suit had been damaged during his crossing attempt, some of the fabric toward the end hanging in shreds. Having no better ideas, he quickly tore off a strip of the fabric and got to work tying it around the end of his femur and his loose fibula.

Hopefully it would hold, at least until he got to Shantytown. There was nothing else he could do.

With one hand clutching the two halves of his broken tibia close to his chest, he used his other hand to push himself up off his seat, his left leg wobbling. The movement immediately felt wrong—the fibula was _not_ meant to bear weight without the aid of the tibia—but he kept as much weight on his other leg as he could, and began limping.

People waiting the board the gondola immediately backed away upon seeing him, and he ignored them, trying to act like it was the most normal thing for a half-lame skeleton to be limping around and carrying his own broken bones with him. It wasn't an easy feat when his leg left like it would give out beneath him with every step, but he kept it up anyway, at least until he got past the crowds. It was still a long walk to get to Shantytown from here, and in this condition, it would take even longer.

Héctor found himself getting worn out quickly, and hobbled over to lean against the wall of a building with the intent of resting until he caught his breath. Unfortunately the shop owner had other ideas, and poked his head through the doorway to ask Héctor to not loiter. Héctor could only mumble an apology as he shuffled away, too tired to put up a fight this time.

For some distance he carried on like that, limping down the gradually sloping streets and stopping to rest where he could. Occasionally people would openly stare at him and whisper to each other, but he was beyond caring at this point. Even with his efforts to put most of his weight on his good leg, his left fibula was aching something terrible, and his energy was near-spent by the time he was halfway to Shantytown. He couldn't very well sleep on the side of the street, in front of one of these buildings—not unless he wanted to get arrested again—or fall asleep in an alley and risk falling prey to petty thieves, so he had to force himself to keep moving.

At one point his foot caught against an uneven cobblestone, and with a wave of blinding panic he realized he was about to slam his already-broken tibia into the street. Twisting himself around on his spine, he managed to turn his front half around, clutching his tibia to his chest for dear life and falling hard on his shoulder. The fall still hurt a bit, dislodging a few bones, but he'd prevented himself from ruining his leg any more than it already was, so at least he had that.

Taking a moment to catch his breath as his panic ebbed away, he called his bones back. He made it to his knees, and, not thinking, tried to push himself up on his bad leg. The pressure sent a jolt of pain through his fibula, and for a terrifying moment he thought the thin bone would snap. But it held, and he eased his leg back down.

As Héctor fought to stand up again, part of him wished someone would see his struggle and _help_ him. But fewer people came down this low on the tower, and those who did walked in a wide arc around him, sparing him a glance, if anything. At the same time, he almost wished no one were here at all, so they wouldn't have to see him in such a ridiculous predicament. Those who saw him were probably wondering what on earth he'd done to land himself in such a terrible position, and that was a question he didn't want to explain the answer to.

It took him far longer than it should have to right himself, but he managed, and with a more pronounced limp he resumed his trek down to the shanties. Under his breath he nearly cursed the guard who had simply dumped him on the street when his screams had gotten too grating to listen to. _It's better than staying in there, though,_ he reminded himself, and the anger reluctantly ebbed away. _They could have just made you stay there with your broken leg._ And aside from that… they weren't the ones at fault in the first place.

That would be the _idiota_ who thought that attempting to rocket himself over the bridge via fireworks was a viable plan.

 _Ay_ , that would be something to explain to his Shantytown family. People didn't usually ask questions there, but they might this time given the state he was coming home in. _Ah, yeah, the fireworks. Turns out they don't make good transportation. But they do have a tendency to blow off your limbs if you stand too close. Who knew, right?_

A chuckle escaped his throat, only to be cut off by a gasp as his left leg gave out beneath him, sending him crashing to the ground. He wasn't able to twist himself around this time, and his tibia was caught between his body and the hard cobblestone ground.

All that existed was pain. If Héctor were capable of thinking beyond the current agony, he would have found the pain comparable to what he'd felt the moment he'd realized his tibia was not in one piece.

He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there before he gradually became aware of a strange barking noise accompanied by an insectoid buzzing and distant footfalls, which he could just barely make out over what sounded like a hoarse scream nearby.

…Oh. That last part was him, wasn't it?

Choking, he pushed himself up on his arm, wearily raising his head to see a sky-blue and neon-orange _alebrije_ flying toward him—one that looked like a fox with ears as big as its body, and buzzing dragonfly wings carrying it through the air. It was strangely familiar, and suddenly he recalled that one of his _primos_ back in Shantytown had an _alebrije_ like that. But that would mean—!

"Héctor? Cousin Héctor?!"

Héctor wheezed out a laugh and let his head drop, facing the cobblestone below him. " _Hola_ , Primo Lorenzo," he said, lifting his head again and cocking a brow bone as the man got closer. The _alebrije_ , meanwhile, landed next to him and began sniffing him over, its breath almost ticklish against him. "Good to see you out and about."

"Where have you been, cousin?!" Lorenzo cried, hurrying closer. His sombrero, tied around his neck, was flailing behind him. "Did you get yourself arrested again? Why are you— _Dios mio_." He stumbled, drawing back with an alarmed hiss.

"Ah, it's, uh… not as bad as it looks." Héctor gave a sheepish grin, but it must not've been enough to convince his _primo_ , who was looking him over in horror.

Quickly Lorenzo's widened eyes narrowed into a glare as he clenched his fists. "Who did this to you? Who do I gotta send Lola after, huh?"

Héctor looked askance at the little fox _alebrije_ that was now nosing his cheekbone, tickling his face with her whiskers. "Looks like you've already sent her after the one responsible, _primo_."

Lorenzo looked him over again before heaving a deep sigh, frame wilting. "Come on, let's get you home." Stooping down, he grasped Héctor's hand and eased him to his feet.

Biting back a moan as the pain flared in all parts of his broken leg, Héctor shut his eyes, leaning to his right side. " _Gracias_ ," he breathed, clutching the two halves of his tibia to his chest. He waited, expecting his _primo_ to wrap his arm around his shoulders to help him limp back to Shantytown.

Instead, there was a moment of silence before Lorenzo spoke: "Uh-uh." And suddenly Héctor was lifted off his feet and scooped up into the man's arms.

" _¡¿Que?!_ " Héctor blurted, opening his eyes to find himself being carried in the direction of the shanties. " _Oye_ , what are you doing?!"

"You're not walking like that," Lorenzo said with a firm shake of his head. "Wouldn't make it down two steps."

…Ah. Right. The stairs. He'd forgotten about those. "Fair enough," he muttered, settling himself in his _primo's_ arms. Meanwhile, Lola buzzed around him, whimpering in concern. He wondered if Lorenzo would ever ask him what happened, but the man remained quiet, at least until they got to the stairs (in a shockingly short length of time, he thought—at the rate Héctor had been going, it might have taken him another hour or so).

"Heh, thought I was going to go play for tips this evening," Lorenzo said, shaking his head. "Guess there's always tomorrow."

"Do they still come near you?" Héctor glanced toward him; Lorenzo's bones were only in slightly better condition than his own, though he had a crack through the bottom of his right eye socket.

"Sometimes," he replied, glancing over Héctor's ribs so he could see the steps beneath him. "If I can play good enough, sometimes they don't notice just how yellow my bones are." He glanced back at Héctor as he stepped down to the first landing. "You should try it sometime, cousin."

Thinking about playing music again made a heavy weight settle in his chest cavity. " _No gracias, primo._ "

"Eh. Suit yourself." With that, Lorenzo kept quiet as he continued carrying Héctor down the rickety staircase, concentrating on not falling off or through the rotten wood. But finally they reached the gates to Shantytown, and Héctor twitched his good leg.

"Set me down," he whispered, " _por favor_. I…" _I don't want anyone seeing me like this._ "…I think I can walk now."

"You sure?"

" _Sí. Please._ "

Shrugging, Lorenzo eased Héctor down to his feet, but kept an arm around his shoulder. Héctor could accept that, throwing his own arm around his _primo_ and grinning like they'd just been having a fun conversation. No need to worry the others, after all.

As they limped into town, immediately it came to life with the joyful cries of the nearly-forgotten. "Cousin Héctor!" a few souls shouted, waving enthusiastically, and he called out their names in return. "Where you been, cousin?" called another.

"Out and about?" He tried to shrug as best as he could. "You know, got to keep up with the plans, heh. Get ready for next year!" It wasn't entirely a lie—when he'd been able to think around his pain, he had been contemplating potential new plans for next year. And he _had_ been out and about. Primo Lorenzo was giving him a look, but he only grinned back, glancing pointedly in the direction of his shack.

"What's that you're carrying?" Tía Chelo asked, taking a few steps closer, and Héctor flinched, tugging it partially under his jacket.

"Nothing, nothing!" he said frantically, contemplating whether or not he should just scramble away from Lorenzo and bolt to his shack. "Just, uh…"

"Are you limping?" one _tío_ asked, also stepping closer. "What's—eEEEAGH!"

Héctor shut his eyes, gritting his teeth. Here we go.

"What happened to your leg?!"

" _Pobrecito_ cousin! Are you carrying your—?"

"When did _this_ happen?"

 _Dios_ , he didn't want to answer any of this right now. But he held up his free hand, grinning as best as he could as he faced the growing crowd of souls. "Hey, _estas bien_! I can barely feel it. You don't need to worry about me, eh, _primos_?"

"You've been gone for two days, Héctor!"

"It doesn't hurt?! I broke my pinky toe last month and could hardly walk!"

"Is your fibula tied to your _femur_? _¿Estas loco_?"

" _¡Apártense!_ " a harsh voice cut through the crowd, and a few souls moved out of the way. "What're you all gawking at?"

Héctor flinched, fighting the childish urge to duck behind Primo Lorenzo as a familiar figure hobbled to the front of the crowd. " _Hola_ , Chicharrón," he said, voice small.

Chicharrón looked him up and down, eying his mangled leg and shattered tibia. Quickly he made the connection, and his usual scowl deepened.

Héctor felt his non-existent guts sink. He knew what was going to happen next, and braced himself.

To his surprise, Chicharrón turned around, hobbling back toward his bungalow. "Well, bring him over," he called over his shoulder.

…Okay, so he was probably saving it for later, then. Wouldn't be the first time this had happened. Héctor looked cautiously at Lorenzo, who only shrugged and began to help Héctor across the boardwalk to Chicharrón's house. A couple souls followed while the rest stared. Their looks may have been ones of sympathy, but Héctor would rather they not look at him at all.

As they entered the bungalow, Chicharrón immediately began digging through his shelves and piles. "Set him in the hammock," he grumbled, tossing a shoebox full of socks behind him, "and make sure he stays there."

Héctor frowned. "It's all right, Cheech. I can get in myself," he said, moving to get away from Lorenzo so he could prove it.

"No, you can't." The old man glanced over his shoulder, nodding at the two souls that had come with them—probably Estefan and Manuel, if he were to guess without looking.

Before he could check, they were both suddenly at either side of him, hooking their arms under his in a way that reminded him a little too much of the security guards back at the bridge. But they weren't rough, at least, and glancing to either side of him (his guesses had been correct), he found them looking away, their expressions a mix of sympathy and unease. "Wh-what's with all this, Cheech? You're just gonna duct tape it back together, aren't you?" He looked frantically around the house, clutching his tibia as close to his body as he could. "You… have duct tape, right?"

"Mmm, nope, not this time," came Chicharrón's grumble from the other side of the house. A cascade of items crashed down at his side as he continued his search, unperturbed. "Leather n' glue will have to do, and a splint until it sets."

"Uh… well, that… still sounds doable. If you give it over to me, I could… probably do it," Héctor offered as his _tíos_ gently lifted him into the hammock. Said hammock was full of junk, and he grimaced, pulling a violin bow out from beneath him as he tried to make himself comfortable. "I mean, not like last time, with my… arm." His left hand reached over to rub said arm, over the tape and leather that held the fragmented end in place. "I-I've got both hands free this time!"

Finally Chicharrón turned to face him, straightening his back. "So set it."

Héctor blanched, looking down from his tibia and back to Chicharrón. "What, right now?" When the old man's expression didn't change, Héctor attempted a smile, the corners of it strained. "What's the rush? I was just going to head back home and take a nap, first—I mean, not like I've got anywhere to—"

Chicharrón marched up to the hammock, his cane stamping against the floor, and held out several strips of leather and a can of glue. " _Set it._ "

Stepping forward, Lorenzo held out a hand. "Cheech—"

Chicharrón shot a glare at Lorenzo, and waited until he backed off before looking back to Héctor.

Swallowing, Héctor reached out with a shaking hand to take the items, looking from the leather and back to his tibia. _It's… it shouldn't be_ that _hard_ , he thought, setting the leather and glue aside and taking one half of his bone in his left hand. _Just putting two pieces back together._ He bit his lip as he held out the two pieces of bone, trying to ignore that his _tíos_ and _primo_ were all turning away. _I've done crazier stuff to try to cross the bridge_. Trembling, he turned the two halves of the bone in what he guessed was the right angle, and—

The two broken fragments bumped against each other, and Héctor shrieked. Moments later, he could barely hear Chicharrón's voice over his daze: "Now you see? Lorenzo, take those things over here. Estefan, bring me the rest of his leg. Manny, give him this, and hold him down."

Before he could ask what was going on, a bottle was held out to him. He took it without question, tipping it back to pour some of its contents down his throat, some of it splashing against his face when his left leg was very suddenly tugged off below the femur. Shortly afterward the bottle was taken from him, and his two _tíos_ stood slightly behind him and off to either side of the hammock, each with their hands over his shoulders.

" _Idiota_ ," Chicharrón grumbled from the other side of the bungalow, and Héctor shut his eyes to keep himself from looking in the old man's direction. "When we get _broke_ , we don't get _fixed_ , and you go off with your _estúpido_ plans and…"

"Cousin Héctor," Lorenzo said over Cheech's grumbling, hurrying to the hammock, "have you thought about your plan for next year?"

Héctor eyed him. "Why are you asking me n—"

Pain briefly shot through his absent leg, and his voice hiked up into a yelp, his entire body bucking as his _tíos_ forced him back down. His femur swung around uselessly while his right leg kicked a jar of buttons and a very broken accordion out of the hammock.

" _Sí_ , you were saying you were getting ready earlier," Estefan said, his voice a little too loud.

Héctor shut his eyes, his hands clinging to either side of the hammock in a death grip. "I-I don't know yet, the f-fireworks didn't work this yeeEE _AAAAGH_ —"

"Fireworks?!" Chicharrón growled, and Héctor could only give a pained moan in reply.

"Okay, but what else can you try?" Lorenzo prodded, then waited for a response. "Cousin?"

Feeling like he would throw up if he tried to answer, Héctor only turned his head away, facing the sound of the water lapping the docks outside the house. There was a sudden but light pressure against his chest, and he gasped, looking up into the face of a tiny, big-eared fox. Instinctively he reached out to pet her, and tried to make his mind formulate words. " _A-al… alebrije_?" he offered, and hissed as he felt something cold between the two halves of his tibia. Lola tipped her ears back at the sound, but didn't move away, and he kept his focus on her. "C-could… dress as an _alebrije_ , and… and they'd… let me… pass…?"

Behind him came a few soft, but genuine, laughs. "How do you plan to do _that_ , cousin?"

"I… I think Ceci was using some glowy paint— _nnngh_!" He gritted his teeth, kicking out with his good leg as he felt his bad one get twisted slightly. "Use the—glowy paint, and—"

Chicharrón gave a frustrated cry. "Lorenzo, get over here!"

Héctor could feel them holding his tibia together while something was wrapped around it, binding to it with cold, sticky glue that made him shudder. "C-could rearrange my bones, a-and look like… an _alebrije…_ M-maybe some other costume work…" He shifted, trying to turn to grin up at his _tíos_. "You think it might work?"

Manuel cocked a brow bone. " _Estas loco_ , cousin. Maybe, though."

"Heh, _un poco_ ," he mumbled, settling back into the hammock. Whatever they were doing to his leg didn't seem to hurt quite so much now, and he felt like he could ignore it, maybe if he just shut his eyes again for a little while…

It didn't feel like long, however, before his leg was suddenly shoved back against his femur. Yelping, he sat bolt upright, the hammock swaying beneath him, and looked around. Lola was sleeping off to his side, and on the other side of the bungalow, he could see his _primo_ and two _tíos_ talking quietly. But then where was—

He glanced back to the left and nearly leapt out of the hammock in surprise to see Chicharrón standing there, scowling at him. "Normally I'd ask you to get outta here, but unless you want your leg to snap like a twig again, _lie down_. Gotta let the glue set for twenty-four hours."

"... _Gracias_ , Cheech," he muttered, lying back into the hammock.

Chicharrón grunted, hobbling back over to a spot that Héctor couldn't see. Meanwhile, Héctor looked down at his leg, inspecting it: a few long strips of leather had been wrapped around it and held with glue, which he could still see faint glimmers of. But over all that, a splint had been tied to his leg with a few more strips of leather and what appeared to be several strips of a charred fabric. It looked... blue? Purple? Something like that. Sort of like his—

Blinking, he looked to his right arm, only to find the sleeve had been cut off. "Wha—hey!" he cried, turning his head to look for Chicharrón and finding him off to the right behind his hammock. "You wrecked my suit!"

"That sleeve was in shreds anyway," Chicharrón said with a shrug. "Don't think you're missing much."

"Quite the fashion statement!" Manuel called from the other side of the shack. Héctor was almost offended, but his _tío_ gave him a good-natured grin—a real one, not like the ones the people in the Department of Family Reunions gave him. "Maybe you'll set a new trend."

Héctor snorted, settling himself back into his hammock and shaking his head. "Ah, yes. The just-recently-blown-yourself-up look. Sure it'll be... _explosively_ popular, eh?"

The others broke into laughter, while he was pretty sure he could hear Cheech rolling his eyes before shouting: "I'll dump that hammock out into the water for the next one, Héctor!"

Lorenzo stepped up closer to Chicharrón, smiling. "Why's that, Cheech? You don't think it'll _take off_?"

An empty bottle crashed at Lorenzo's feet, and Lola's head shot up from where she lay at Héctor's side. But Lorenzo only laughed, and she settled back down, tucking her face against Héctor's ribcage. Héctor smiled, resting his hand on her head as he glanced back down at his broken leg.

It still hurt a lot, and he wasn't sure how well he was going to walk after this. On top of that, he had another failed _Dia de Muertos_ behind him, but...

Glass clinked nearby, and Héctor craned his neck to see Chicharrón taking a swig from a new bottle before passing it over to the others. The bottle was passed around until Lorenzo handed it off to Héctor, who took it with no small amount of gratitude, tipping it back. He probably drank more than Cheech would've liked, but it was enough to make him too drowsy to care.

He leaned back in the hammock as conversation resumed around him, still warm and friendly in spite of Chicharrón's occasional grumbles—so different from the harsh voice of the security officer, the mocking voices from the Department of Family Reunions, or the suspicious whispers of the people in the upper parts of the city. It didn't sound much different from any other day in the shanties, but it was comforting in the way only Shantytown could be.

The sloshing of the water outside and the sound of the voices around him faded and blurred into a pleasant murmur as Héctor shut his eyes.

He didn't have much else going for him, but right now, his Shantytown family was enough.


	7. Damaged Vocal Cords (Héctor, Imelda)

Hiya folks! I'm here with another chapter of this thing. This one's more lighthearted, so I hope you enjoy! Thanks to Jaywings and PaperGardener for beta-reading this.

Just so you know, though... I DID have another oneshot for this collection, but I couldn't post it here for... reasons. I may post it as a separate fic if I feel up to drawing a cover for it, but until then, if you want to read it, look up this fic over on AO3-you'll find it posted to the collection there.

And now...

 **Prompt: Damaged Vocal Cords**

 **Characters: Héctor, Imelda, Ernesto, pre-movie**

* * *

Héctor and Imelda had only been married for a few weeks now, and Imelda was embarrassed to find Héctor already seeing her in an awful state—that is to say, Imelda was sick.

True, they'd known each other since they were kids, but whenever she'd caught an illness, she had stayed indoors with her parents taking care of her. Now, it was just her and Héctor. Before, he'd always insisted how beautiful she was. Now… well, she couldn't imagine she looked all that wonderful with her dripping nose, pale face, and messy hair.

" _Ay,_ I'm _fine, mi amor,_ " Imelda croaked for the dozenth time, just before she sneezed again into her already-soiled handkerchief.

" _Shh_ , don't worry about it," Héctor replied, gently brushing her hair away from her face. Her braid had come loose again and she was too tired to fix it up. "You'll be over this soon."

Still she found herself glancing away from him as she wiped her nose. Ever since she'd woken up that morning, she'd kept thinking back to the things the other women of Santa Cecilia warned her about—how as wonderful as Héctor seemed now, that would all change when he saw her at her worst, when she wasn't pretty. She'd brushed it off then—Héctor had never, ever been like one of those men—but now, with how awful she felt, she found herself muttering, "I suppose I'm not exactly the beautiful woman you married, am I."

She hadn't meant to say it out loud, and winced when he gave a startled "what?" But rather than being angry, he went on: "Are you kidding? You're as beautiful as the day I met you, _mi amor._ "

Imelda paused, and turned to give him a look, but Héctor only grinned—a genuine smile, not a mocking one. She could feel how damp her hair and skin was from the sweat, and her nose was starting to drip again, and she truly, honestly had no idea what he was looking at. But seeing him smiling at her like an idiot even when she looked like a disaster, she found herself dissolving into tired laughter.

Unfortunately the stupid sickness had to make itself known again, and her laughter turned to dry coughs.

Héctor's hand was immediately at her back, rubbing gentle circles until the coughing fit subsided. Groaning, Imelda rubbed her upper chest. "Weren't you supposed to be playing with Ernesto today?"

"That can wait. I think I'll make us some tea now—maybe it'll soothe your throat."

And so the next few days continued like that, Héctor spending much of his time taking care of her while they waited for the sickness to pass. He made her hot drinks to ease the pain in her throat, and with her help made some simple broths that she could easily swallow with her throat swollen as it was. Sometimes he would even bring out his guitar, playing and singing her favorite songs to lift her spirits.

He did go out to play with Ernesto when Imelda insisted that he needed to work, but evidently he found it difficult to focus, and would often leave early to be with Imelda again. This, of course, didn't sit well with Ernesto, and a few times the other _músico_ begged for him to come back and play "just a few more songs." Héctor had already taken a break from playing music with his friend while he spent his first married week entirely with his wife, and he'd only just gone back to playing music in the plaza when Imelda had gotten sick. While part of Imelda felt bad for keeping Héctor distracted from his work (and part of Héctor certainly felt bad about that as well), she was grateful he considered her more important than his music.

The sickness lasted a few days, and while the symptoms had finally started to fade, the constant dry coughing had taken its toll on her throat. It still hurt to swallow, and her voice had been rough already, but then she woke up one morning to something she hadn't expected.

" _Buenos dias,_ " was what she'd meant to say when she saw him stirring by her side. What came out instead was a breathy croak that hurt her throat to force out.

Immediately she put a hand to her mouth, blinking in surprise, and tried again to speak, only for a barely-comprehensible squeak to come out instead.

Héctor, meanwhile, opened his eyes, and looked like he was about to smile at her before he saw the look of consternation on her face. "Imelda?" he asked, pushing himself up on his elbow. "What's wrong?"

 _I don't know,_ she tried to answer, but her sore throat wouldn't let the words come out.

Now Héctor was sitting upright, looking down at her in worry. "What happened to your voice?"

Imelda tried to speak again, only to break down into dry coughs. Wait… was that it? The coughing had worn her voice thin? She hoped that was all it was, anyway. Biting her lip, she sat up in bed, holding out her left hand flat, and making a writing motion on it with her right hand.

"Hm? Oh! _Sí, un momento._ " Scrambling out of bed, Héctor stumbled over to his writing desk, shuffling through the piles of loose papers before finally finding a blank one. He then came back with a pencil, a sheet of paper, and a book for a flat surface to write on. "Is it your throat?" he asked, handing her the items.

She nodded, brow furrowing before she wrote: _Do you think this is permanent?_

Reading over the paper, Héctor looked just as worried. "I… don't know. I don't think so?" He thought it over, then perked up. "Oh! Wait, wait, this happened to my… my papá once, when I was little. His voice was gone for a few days, so he couldn't shout orders at work."

 _We could send for a doctor—_

" _Eeeeeehhh…_ "

Imelda rolled her eyes. Did he _always_ have to be this way about doctors?

"Look, Imelda, my papá got his voice back then, and I'm sure you'll get your voice back soon, too. You just need to rest for a few more days and you'll be good as new. All right?"

Heaving a sigh, she nodded. She would like to get back to work rather than sitting around all day, but she supposed she couldn't exactly go to the market if she couldn't talk with the shopkeepers. …Oh! Quickly she scribbled onto the paper: _We do need to go to the market today._

"Don't worry, I can handle it!" Héctor insisted. "Just write a list of the stuff we need and I'll grab it for you. Now c'mon, let's get you something warm to drink."

Aside from not being able to talk, the morning was pleasant enough. Warm sunlight shone in through the windows, Héctor managed to make a decent breakfast for the both of them (the last of their eggs and a couple pieces of fruit, though Imelda was unable to finish her apple), and the tea did soothe her throat a little, even if it didn't heal enough to talk. After that, they spent the morning together to finish some of the chores Imelda was able to do, and getting together a list of things that Héctor would need to pick up at the market. He asked if she would like for him to play any music for her, but she declined—they could do that later when Héctor came back, so he left his guitar sitting by the door.

When Héctor finally left, Imelda rested on a chair by the window. For a short while she tried to read a book, but found it was putting her to sleep. Shrugging, she set the book aside and leaned into the chair, allowing herself to doze. Maybe a brief nap would do her some good while she waited for Héctor to return.

A few minutes later, the door flew open with a _bang_.

At first Imelda thought that Héctor must have forgotten something, but he never slammed the door open like that. For a split second she felt a jolt of panic, wondering what might have happened to make him rush back in like that so shortly after he'd left, when she heard a voice call out:

"Héctor!"

Rolling her eyes, Imelda stood up from her chair and turned to see that Ernesto had barged into the house, and was frantically looking around. "Héctor?" he called again before his eyes fell on Imelda. "Do you know where he is?"

Imelda's first instinct was to ask him what he was doing, coming in uninvited like that, but when she opened her mouth, he immediately cut her off.

"I don't get this whole thing about needing to take care of you," Ernesto muttered, looking her up and down. "You look fine to me. He can't keep up that excuse." With that he marched toward the kitchen, leaving Imelda dumbfounded.

Well, it wasn't like she would've been able to say anything to him, anyway. She briefly considered grabbing some paper to write on, but leaving Ernesto alone for a moment too long sounded like a disaster waiting to happen. Heaving a frustrated sigh, she followed the man into the kitchen as he continued to rant, still searching for her husband.

"Honestly, if he keeps ducking out of his responsibility, he's going to get rusty." He turned to peer out the kitchen window, looking for Héctor in the courtyard in spite of the fact that Ernesto had just walked through it. "How are we supposed to become world-renowned musicians if he's not playing every day?"

 _Playing still counts even if he's not playing for a crowd_ , Imelda thought, wishing she could say it out loud. _Ay_ , he'd only been there for barely a minute and he was already grating on her nerves.

"This is ridiculous," Ernesto growled, turning away from the window. Imelda tried to approach him, but he took no notice, walking right past her and striding to the bedroom. "Héctor! Are you in there? Don't tell me you've slept in!"

Anger burning in her chest, Imelda hurried up to him. The bedroom was not clean—they hadn't bothered making the bed that morning, Héctor's desk looked like a very large book had exploded over it, and the rest of the room was cluttered. Not to mention, it was their bedroom. _Don't you_ dare _barge into the—_

"If you don't wake up right now I'm going to drag you to the plaza myself." With that, he threw open the bedroom door and walked in. Fuming, Imelda followed him.

Not finding Héctor there, Ernesto breathed a frustrated sigh. "This is getting ridiculous, where could he—" He broke off into a yelp when Imelda suddenly stepped in front of him abd shoved him back out into the hall. " _Dios mio, mujer_ , are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

She leaned against the door frame, unimpressed, and sharply gestured out the door. _Stay out of our bedroom. And the house, please._

"You could have at least _said_ something," Ernesto went on, brushing himself off and turning away. But rather than turning to leave, he headed toward the guest bedroom instead. "Where is he?"

 _What—no! Get out!_ Imelda followed him as he peered into the empty bedroom, and yanked on one of his suspenders.

Yelping, Ernesto spun around and blinked at her in bewilderment. "What's _wrong_ with you?" he cried, reaching back to re-adjust his suspender. "Tell me, Imelda—where is your husband?"

Imelda crossed her arms once and then pointed in the direction of their front door. _He's not here,_ idiota _! Get out of our house!_

"Oh, out there?" Walking past her, Ernesto opened the front door. Instead of leaving, however, he peered around the courtyard. "I don't see him anywhere."

Fighting the strong desire to grab the nearest object and crack it over his thick skull, Imelda buried her face in her hands for a moment before stomping her foot to get the man's attention. When he finally looked back at her, she drew in a breath, and tried again to speak: _Héctor is not here,_ she wanted to say, but her voice came out in a few breathy squeaks.

Ernesto stared at her for a long moment, as though looking at a particularly tricky line of sheet music, and finally his eyebrows flew up in recognition. "You can't speak, can you?"

Imelda stared at him in exasperation. _No,_ she mouthed.

"So that's why you've been following me around like a stray dog instead of saying anything," he mused, rubbing his chin. "I was thinking you'd missed me."

Missed him?! She'd just gotten married! Why would she miss hanging out with another man?! Unable to protest, she gave him the best expression she could to convey the anger and frustration she felt.

Still Ernesto continued to look her over, eyes narrowing as the gears turned in whatever rusty contraption passed as a brain for him. Something seemed to click, and his face brightened. "Well then," he said, a seemingly-genuine smile crossing his features. "I suppose Héctor would appreciate it if I stayed here to help take care of his sick wife."

 _Qué._

"Knowing him, he won't be out for long. Hopefully. But until he returns, I don't suppose he'd mind if I made myself at home." With that, he walked back into the kitchen, leaving Imelda with her mouth agape.

 _Oh, you have got to be kidding._ Gritting her teeth, Imelda followed him into the kitchen to find him opening their cabinets and hunting around their table. He spotted an apple sitting on the table and snatched it up, taking a bite. It was their last one, but at least Héctor would be getting some more at the market—it was more frustrating to see him helping himself to their food uninvited. Still, she waited for him to finish eating before tapping him on the shoulder and pointing firmly in the direction of the door.

"Hmm?" he asked, setting the apple core on the table. "Is there something you want to show me, _señora_?"

 _Sí. THE DOOR._ Pointing again, she eyed him until he turned to look where she was pointing. She relaxed as she watched him finally make his way to the door again, and turned to dispose of the garbage he'd left behind.

"What was it you… _oh_!"

To Imelda's confusion, she heard the sound of something heavy being lifted off the floor, and her eyes widened in horror. _No,_ idiota _, you know that's not what I meant—!_ Hurrying back out of the kitchen, she found Ernesto standing there, holding up Héctor's guitar and tuning it.

"Of course, Imelda, I'd love to play some music for you." Flashing her a smile, he pulled the guitar strap over his shoulder and began to strum a few chords. "Do you have any requests?"

Imelda grit her teeth. _Sí, for you to go away!_ She pointed at the guitar and gestured back to the side of the door, where Héctor had left it.

Ernesto ignored her, looking off to the side as he began to think something over. "Let's see… what was the one you liked? Ah, _La Llorona_ , right?"

Blinking, Imelda stepped back. She hadn't expected him to remember she'd liked that one—it was one of the first songs she'd heard Héctor play. Perhaps allowing Ernesto to show off a little wouldn't be _too_ bad. It would certainly be less annoying than anything else he'd been doing. She nodded at him.

"Very well." Ernesto played a few opening chords, closing his eyes as he began to sing, " _Ay, de mi Llorona… Llorona de azul celeste…_ "

With a soft sigh, Imelda took a seat on a nearby chair. If she couldn't get rid of him, she might as well enjoy the music.

" _Y anque la vida me cue_ —hey," Ernesto said, opening one eye and glancing over at her, "you're not singing along."

She gave him a deadpan look.

Shrugging, Ernesto pressed his hand against the guitar strings to break off the music. "Well, since you can't sing along to your favorite songs, perhaps I can sing something different."

Oh, wonderful. Of course it wouldn't be _that_ easy. _No,_ she mouthed, but of course that wouldn't stop this great idiot.

"Perhaps a more romantic song?" Strumming a few more opening chords, Ernesto cleared his throat to begin a different song. " _Everyone knows Juanita…_ "

 _AAGH! No,_ not _that one!_ Imelda waved her arms in a request to _stop_ , but of course Ernesto ignored it as he continued singing the awful song. Part of her wanted to grab her shoe and beat him over the head with it, but she'd hate for Héctor to come home to a sight like that. What kind of person would he think he'd married, if he found her attacking his best friend? She'd just put up with it for now, until Héctor came home.

She just hoped that would happen soon.

* * *

"…and so, I became more of a mentor to him, you know?"

Imelda dragged her hands over her face. Ernesto had given up halfway into the third dirty song, and she was frankly impressed he'd lasted that long, given how much he depended on an eager audience for his songs. Now, though, she almost wished he had kept it up, because his singing voice was at least marginally more pleasant to listen to than his normal voice.

Especially when he was rambling about himself.

"Of course, we are still best amigos and always have been, but I taught him everything he knows."

 _No you didn't. He taught you how to play the guitar when he was five. I_ know _. I was there._ Not that it would make any difference, since Ernesto seemed lost in his own world as he rambled about his warped version of his own life to Imelda, as though she didn't already know a great deal of it.

Just when she was certain he would never shut up, the front door opened and Héctor stumbled into the room, carrying several baskets full of food. " _¡Lo siento, mi amor!_ I didn't mean to take so long, but—" He paused, noting that two people were in the room. "Ernesto? What are you doing here?"

Imelda thought she would never be more happy to see her husband again. But just as she stood to greet him, Ernesto stood as well, already reaching out to help him. "Ah, _hermanito_ ," he said, quickly taking some baskets from his friend, who sighed in relief. "I was just paying your wife a visit! I wanted to play her a few songs to lift her spirits."

 _You lying little—!_

"Oh, that's great!" Héctor said, smiling at his friend. "Good to know you're there to help us, _amigo_. Hang on…" He rushed into the kitchen to set the baskets down, and hunted through them for a moment before pulling out a couple beef empanadas and rushing to bring one over to Imelda. "Here! I grabbed something for the both of us."

Her anger over Ernesto's pestering quickly melted away as she took the food, resisting the urge to lean in and kiss her husband (she didn't want him to get sick after all of this). Instead, she leaned in to give him a side-hug, which he gratefully accepted.

The hug only lasted for a few moments before Imelda could sense a certain persistent moron behind her. She found herself tensing in annoyance, and Héctor looked up.

"Not to interrupt, this uh…" Ernesto gestured at the two vaguely before shrugging. "But Imelda seems to be doing a lot better now, aside from her voice. Don't you think she'll be fine on her own, now, without you needing to interrupt our music to check on her?"

Imelda wrapped her free arm around her husband more tightly, partly to keep herself from slugging Ernesto.

"Eeeehh… I don't know, Ernesto. I'd like to give it another day or two, just until she's mostly better."

"You can't keep slacking off like this—"

"I'm not slacking off!" Sighing, Héctor looked down at Imelda. "What do you think, _mi amor_? Should I go back to the plaza now, or would you like me to stay home a little longer?"

Under different circumstances, Imelda would have said no—while her voice was gone, she was mostly fine otherwise, and didn't really need help on her own. On the other hand… She took a quick glance at Ernesto and nodded, pulling closer to Héctor.

"That settles it, then. _Lo siento,_ Ernesto, but you'll have to give us a few days."

"I—!" Ernesto seemed to puff up for a moment, like a rooster that was about to start squawking, but he looked between the two and quickly deflated. "Fine, fine. But in two days, then! In two days, the plaza will once again hear the music of Ernesto _y_ Héctor!"

Imelda rolled her eyes, but Héctor laughed. "Of course. I'll see you then! _¡Adios!_ "

Finally Ernesto left. Imelda let out a sigh, leaning into Héctor, who gratefully leaned back for a moment before pulling away, holding out the empanada still in his hand. "Well, now that that's done, are you hungry?"

Imelda nodded, following Héctor over to the table to eat. Part of her wanted to tell Héctor just how infuriating Ernesto had been, but she couldn't anyway, and honestly she really didn't want to make Héctor feel bad, especially when he was going out of his way to help her.

Besides… it wasn't like she couldn't confront Ernesto on her own _later_.

* * *

A couple days later, Imelda's voice had mostly returned, and, as promised, Héctor had gone out to meet Ernesto in the plaza, Imelda joining him. To both their surprise, Ernesto had been leaving them alone. Héctor took it to mean his friend was respecting their wishes, while Imelda wondered if Ernesto had realized that she might confront him once she had her voice back, and was deliberately avoiding them. She supposed they would soon find out.

…Possibly.

Héctor walked in a circle, head twisting this way and that as he scrutinized the plaza. "That's strange… Where is he?"

"I don't know," Imelda replied, her voice still a little rough but mostly better. "Wasn't he supposed to meet you here?"

" _Sí_ … He could have forgot—no, he was asking nearly every day. He wouldn't have…" He spun around, giving Imelda a worried look. "Do you think something happened to him?"

 _I think he might be hiding_ , Imelda thought, but shook her head. "Perhaps he's still at home. Should we check?"

Already heading in the direction of Ernesto's house, Héctor nodded, and Imelda followed. It didn't take them long to get there, and Héctor immediately began knocking on the door. "Ernesto?"

Imelda waited patiently, not quite as worried as her husband, but curious if Ernesto really was hiding, or if something else was at play. She perked up at the sound of slow footfalls within—so he was home. Good. Now she could finally give him a piece of her mind.

Héctor seemed a little relieved, looking over at Imelda to say something before they both heard familiar wracking coughs on the other side of the door.

…Well, that was interesting.

Finally the door opened, and a very tired, very pale Ernesto gazed out the doorway. He looked like he was about to smile at Héctor before his eyes fell on Imelda, and he scrambled backward, clutching his throat.

"Ernesto!" Héctor cried. "Are you—?"

"That cough sounded awful," Imelda said, covering her mouth as though she were shocked (in reality, hiding a smile). "Is your throat all right?"

"I—"

The single syllable he managed to get out was hoarse and barely audible, and he doubled over in another coughing fit.

"Oooh…" Héctor winced. "It sounds like you caught what Imelda had."

" _Qué terrible_ ," Imelda said, looking away and swallowing a laugh. She could see Ernesto nodding hesitantly out of the corner of her eye, and turned back to see him staring at her warily.

"I, uh… guess we won't be playing today, then." Héctor's frame wilted, but then he immediately perked up again, looking at Imelda. "Hey, could he come over? We could make him some soup."

Imelda's gut reaction was to reject the idea, but she stopped herself, glancing back at Ernesto, who seemed to have gone a shade paler. She grinned. "That's a wonderful idea, Héctor! I'm sure he would appreciate the gesture."

Catching the look in her eye, Ernesto put his hands up in defense, shaking his head. "No, no," he managed to wheeze out, his voice barely there. "I don't… want you getting sick."

"That's true… Well, we'll make you something and drop it off, then. _¡Adios!_ Feel better soon, _hermano_." And with that, Héctor and Imelda turned to leave… but not before Imelda gave Ernesto a smirk, which quickly turned into a grin at seeing the man flinch.

She had to admit, she'd been looking forward to finally confronting him again now that her voice was back. Giving him a piece of her mind had seemed like it would be rather satisfying, and she was almost disappointed she hadn't been able to do it. However… giving him her _cough_ wasn't a bad alternative.

Maybe now they'd finally have some peace without that idiot bothering them.


	8. Common Cold (Héctor, Imelda)

Hiya folks! Finally here with the next oneshot! Thanks to Jaywings and PaperGardener for reading for me.

I realized I never properly explained this oneshot collection and why I'm doing this. This is for Bad Things Happen Bingo, a challenge where you select what tropes you're comfortable writing, and are given a bingo card with some of those tropes on it. Your goal is, of course, to hit a bingo. I've been taking requests over on my Tumblr blog, bcdrawsandwrites, and if you go there, in the blog desc you'll find a link to my post about the challenge. If you _do_ want to send me something, read through that post, and remember that I ONLY take non-anonymous requests ONLY via Tumblr asks, not anywhere else!

That said, please enjoy!

 **Prompt: Common Cold**

 **Characters: Héctor and Imelda, post-movie**

* * *

Even an hour after the musical had ended, the theater was still crowded. Héctor was talking animatedly to one of the musicians in the crowded theater when Imelda placed a hand on his shoulder. "Héctor, remember what I said?"

" _Sí, mi amor_ , of course!" he replied, and then turned to quickly wrap up the conversation with a promise to meet again later. That settled, he faced Imelda again, offering her his arm. "I remember, before ten."

She nodded at him, smiling as she looped her arm around his, and the two of them walked out of the theater. "I will _not_ go to work on less than eight hours of sleep."

He flashed her a grin. "So you'll stay home with me, then?"

" _Héctor!_ " She gave him a playful shove, and they both laughed as they made their way to the gondola station.

This had been an evening they'd been planning for about a month now, as they worked their schedule around their jobs, extra deliveries, and concerts. Their lives weren't the same as they'd been eight years ago—they were busier than ever, but it was absolutely for the better. Imelda may have missed having a slightly more lenient schedule, but she was more than willing to sacrifice that to be with her husband once more.

Tonight had been the night to see a musical—one Héctor had been highly interested in, since it was the premiere of one with brand new songs from a songwriter he liked. Apparently the musical had been unfinished in the songwriter's life, and he'd simply picked it up again to finish it in death.

"It's great isn't it? When they haven't lost interest in their writing," Héctor babbled to her, even as he repressed a yawn. "Death can really be a killer on your inspiration for some people, heh, so it's nice to see when it _doesn't_ discourage them."

Years ago the words would have left a twist in her gut, given the reason why he'd quit music all those ages ago, but it was something they'd long since worked out in the form of apologies, tears, and the music they sang and played together. Now, she was simply happy to see _him_ happy, and that was all that mattered.

The musical had been wonderful, and they found themselves losing track of time as they discussed the story and songs on the gondola ride back, tired though they were. As they stepped out of the station, they tried to recall the lyrics of a particular song they'd enjoyed. "It was something to do with that storm," Imelda said, lifting up the hem of her dress as she stepped down a few stairs. "The one in the second act."

Héctor hummed, taking her hand in his and swinging their arms back and forth as he thought, while his other hand held his hat in place to keep it from being blown away by the wind. "Something like… 'And then the rain will fall—'"

"No, no, she never said 'rain.' It was certainly 'storm,' I remember. Oh, and 'storming.' She used it to rhyme with 'warm' and 'warning.'"

" _Sí_ , you're probably right. But then—" He paused, and Imelda glanced over when his arm stilled, finding him with a stunned expression on his face. "…Rain?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "It was absolutely 'storm.'"

"No, no no, I mean _rain_."

"But—"

A large drop immediately splashed onto her head, and she stopped.

"… _Rain_."

" _Sí._ It—I thought it wasn't supposed to do that today—"

The raindrops were coming faster now, and they were still a fifteen minute walk from home. "Did you bring an umbrella?"

"No."

They swore simultaneously and took off running, Héctor removing his hat and holding it over Imelda's head, for all the good it would do. Immediately she regretted wearing heels; though she'd hand-made them herself, even the most skilled Rivera craftsmanship couldn't prevent the eventual ache that came with running in heels.

As they turned a corner, the rain picked up even more, as did the wind, causing the rain to beat against them in great gusts. It might not have been quite so terrible had it not been January, but as it was, it was bitterly freezing. Imelda's dress was getting wet, though not soaked through, and her bones that weren't covered with clothing felt like ice. That was bad enough, but they were so focused on getting home that they weren't looking where they ran, and Héctor let out a startled _whoop_ as they splashed through a deep puddle, thoroughly soaking his nice pants and her dress.

"We should have taken Pepita!" Héctor called over the wind.

"In this rain with her wind speeds?"

" _Aaaeeh_ … fair point!"

It felt like an age before they finally arrived at the _hacienda_ , and Héctor was quick to open the gate for Imelda. When they reached the house, Imelda fumbled through her purse with numb, shaking hands as she searched for the key, while Héctor wrung out his scarf. Finally they stepped through the door, both of them heaving an exhausted sigh of relief.

"That… could have gone better," Héctor remarked as he hung up his hat. He then pulled off his wig, twisting it to wring it out.

"Stop that, don't dry it out over the floor like some animal," Imelda said, shivering as she turned to close the door. Before she could, however, a winged, hairless _alebrije_ squeezed through, stood between the two skeletons, and shook himself dry. Imelda cried out in disgust, while Héctor sighed heavily.

"Thank you for the demonstration, Dante," he said, deadpan, as he replaced his wig with a wet _thwap_. Dante, meanwhile, trotted over to the living room and flopped down onto the rug, rolling around on it to further dry himself. Neither of them had the energy to scold him for it.

Imelda glanced at the wall clock, wincing when she noticed the time. "Ten minutes to ten," she breathed, her shoulders sagging. "At least we made it home on time." The rest of the house was deserted—everyone had already gone to their respective rooms for the night, and it was about time they get to theirs.

As she made her way up the stairs, Héctor let out a great yawn, attempting to speak through it: "—shower would've been nice."

"Yes, and then I would have to put you back together and carry you out of the bathroom after you fall asleep in the tub again."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"I say it because we both need to sleep in _bed_ , _mi amor_."

It was a pain to disrobe from their sopping wet clothes, but they managed, toweling dry and changing into freshly-washed night clothes. Sure enough, they slipped into bed just before the clock struck the hour. " _Gracias_ for taking me to the play, Héctor," she murmured as she settled next to him.

Wrapping his arms around her, he mumbled something barely comprehensible in response: "Mm… Sorry 'bout… the rain…"

Imelda smiled. "I'm deeply offended you couldn't control the weather."

Héctor chuckled softly beside her, and it was the last sound she heard from him before he drifted off, and she soon followed.

* * *

Imelda didn't know what time it was when she found herself slipping back into awareness; all she knew was that it was freezing, and the sound of her bones shivering against Héctor's was rather obnoxious.

Blinking in the darkness, she tried to discern the time from the clock on her nightstand. The hands on it glowed faintly (it was a little more modern than she normally liked, but it was a gift from her brothers, and she had to admit the feature was useful), and it took her a moment to realize that it was a little after one in the morning. She really should go back to sleep, and tried to settle closer to Héctor, hoping he would provide more warmth.

To her surprise, the clattering sound of bone against bone grew even louder, and she realized Héctor was shivering as well. It wasn't just her, then—it really _was_ freezing in the room. Luckily she kept a few extra blankets in the trunk at the foot of their bed, but the problem was getting out of bed without waking Héctor up. She tried to slip out from his arms, but he only let out a faint whine, wrapping his arms around her more tightly. Fortunately she knew the workaround to this, and carefully tugged her pillow between herself and her husband. Héctor responded by wrapping himself around the pillow, leaving Imelda to slip away.

Crawling out from under the quilt and standing barefoot on the hardwood floor seemed to increase her chill tenfold. Imelda retrieved the blanket and spread it over their quilt as quickly as she could before returning to the warmth of the bed. However, the added weight and warmth of the blanket didn't seem to completely chase out the cold—in fact, it felt almost simultaneously too hot and too cold—but it would have to do.

Imelda tugged the pillow out of her husband's arms and settled next to him once more. Hopefully this would be the end of it, and the chill wouldn't wake either of them up for the rest of the night.

* * *

Of course, the universe seemed keen on disregarding Imelda's wishes. It didn't feel like much later that Imelda found herself waking again (at five thirty-eight, the clock cheerfully informed her) to a terrible chill once again. This was absurd—had they left a window open? Or the balcony door? But why would they do that in the middle of winter?

Lifting herself up on her arm, Imelda glanced toward the windows. The curtains were pulled over them, but she could faintly hear the sound of wind and rain outside—if the windows were open, the curtains would be billowing in the wind, surely. She had to twist herself around, looking up over Héctor to see the curtains covering the balcony door, but they too were still.

Ridiculous.

Clearly there must be a draft somewhere in the house—possibly from her brothers conducting another experiment without her permission, or perhaps Pepita had scratched another hole in the side of the building. Either way, she would deal with it after she got ready for work.

Imelda tried to leave the bed again, only to find Héctor clinging to her once again, shivering. "Nooo… no, stay," he mumbled, half-asleep, and Imelda blinked.

She knew what he'd said, but for some reason, he sounded like he was speaking through a stuffy nose. Which made little sense, given they didn't _have_ noses anymore. Regardless, she rolled her eyes, letting him cling to her for a few more moments. It wasn't six yet, after all.

Héctor seemed pleased with this, sighing as he tucked his head against her shoulder.

The only thing keeping Imelda from enjoying the peacefulness of the moment was the chill in the air and—she now realized—the strange ache in her chest and in her joints. Remembering she'd been running around in her heels last night, however, she figured that was probably what was causing the soreness. That's what it had to be, not… anything else. It was her fault for wearing impractical footwear that night—a rarity for a Rivera, but it did happen.

Eventually the minutes ticked on, and it was time to get up. Once more exchanging herself for a pillow, Imelda slipped away from her husband and prepared for a usual day of work at the _zapatería_. When she found herself sniffling, she blamed it on the new perfume she'd picked up at the store—she would have to try a different brand later.

In spite of how cold and sore Imelda felt, she finished getting ready (putting on a long-sleeved dress this time) and made her way down the first flight of stairs. She reached the landing, paused, then sneezed.

Her first instinct was to cover her face in surprise, but she forced herself to relax the second she heard footsteps scurrying closer. A door just by the stairs creaked open, and Oscar and Felipe poked their heads out into the hallway.

" _Salud_."

" _Buenas dias,_ " she said, giving her brothers an unimpressed look. "I thought you were supposed to clean and dust around here yesterday."

"Oh, we did!" Felipe exclaimed, ducking back into the room for a moment.

" _Sí_ ," Oscar confirmed. "We used our prototype dusting machine!"

Felipe stepped out into the hallway, carrying a contraption that consisted of two feather dusters tied to a device with a crank attached. He immediately began working it in demonstration, and the feather dusters spun in a circle. "We completed our task with only minor complications."

"It only took half an hour longer than normal."

"It seems you missed a spot or two, then," Imelda said, turning away and fighting the urge to sniffle. (She didn't have a nose, so there was nothing to sniff _with_ , or even _sneeze_ with, for that matter.) "You should do a more thorough cleaning after work today." With that, she headed down the second set of stairs before they could protest.

The morning continued to go on as normal, mostly, as the others made their way downstairs and started their breakfast before work. It was all fine at first—a few of them asked how her date with Héctor had gone last night, and she'd been happy to tell them about it. But she could also tell they were glancing at her every so often, with the way she avoided eating and kept to short sips of coffee instead, but she ignored them as she tried to hide her shivers. She already knew what they wanted to say—that she must be sick, and should take it easy, but they all knew better than that.

At least, she thought they did.

"Mamá Imelda," Rosita said, and Imelda snapped to attention, realizing she must have zoned out. "You should probably stay home and rest. You seem like you're—"

"I am _not_ sick," Imelda said, resisting the urge to sniffle again. Her voice was taking on the same stuffy quality her husband's had, much to her annoyance. "You know we can't get sick. We don't have anything to be sick with."

The others exchanged glances, and Imelda rolled her eyes. "It's all a trick of the mind. I'm not _really_ sick, but because of a bit of rain…" She shook her head. "I'll be heading in today. This is nothing to miss work over."

Fortunately that seemed to shut everyone up, and she was grateful that they finally dropped it. Or perhaps they knew there was no point in arguing? In any case, she was glad to get that out of the way.

Until Coco brought up something else: "Has anyone seen Papá?"

"He's usually up by now, isn't he?" Victoria asked, glancing toward the stairs.

That was true; it wasn't uncommon for Héctor to wake up late, and none of them really minded, but usually he tried to be up on time to go with Imelda in to work, at least. Recalling the way her husband had been shivering earlier, Imelda frowned. "I'll go check on him," she said, heading for the stairs. "Don't wait for me. I'll be in to work on time."

She didn't care whether or not any of them believed her, because she'd make sure of it herself. She _would_ be in to work today. There was no reason not to be. Sure her feet hurt, but she wasn't going to be on her feet all day. And maybe her chest hurt a bit, but she wasn't going to be doing any running around, either. She would be fine.

Stepping into the bedroom, she found Héctor still asleep and shivering, his arms clutching the pillow. She approached the bed, reached out to brush his hair out of his face, and felt his forehead. Sure enough, it was warm—he was running a slight fever, though nothing serious. Sighing softly, she ran her hand through his hair, and he stirred.

"Stay here and rest, Héctor," she said gently. "I'll come back to check on you during my break." Bending down, she planted a light kiss on his forehead before pulling away.

Just as she approached the bedroom door, however, she felt a soft tug on the back of her apron. Confused, she turned around, only to find nothing out of the ordinary—Héctor was still seemingly asleep in bed. When she turned to face the door again, she felt another tug, and this time reached back, startled to feel something long sticking out of her back. Quickly she yanked it off of her and held it in front, only to roll her eyes exaggeratedly at the sight of Héctor's arm waving cheerfully at her.

Looking back again, she found Héctor propped up on his other elbow, eying her with a raised brow bone and a playful-but-tired smile on his face. "You're not going to work," he said, his voice still stuffy with cold, and Imelda clicked her non-existent tongue.

"I _am_. Stop messing around and get some rest." Imelda tossed the arm back to the bed. While she noticed he'd failed to catch it, she didn't think anything of it until she felt something tugging at her apron again. " _Héctor_!"

Héctor's other hand was rather insistently tugging at her skirt, and when she pulled it to her front, it stood up on her hand on two of its fingers, looking almost like a little person. The sight amused Imelda until the hand managed to leap up on top of her head, then settled to her forehead, just long enough for Héctor to feel it.

"You have a fever," he said, and the hand jumped away from Imelda as he recalled it, moving back to his wrist with a reconnecting _pop_. "And you're not going to work."

"How on earth do you manage that?" Imelda asked, hands on her hips.

"Telling that your temperature is higher than normal?"

"I mean that trick with your hand."

"Oh." Héctor sat up, rubbing his wrist sheepishly. "Well, when you're dead for a hundred years, you get kinda bored sometimes…" He plucked off his left hand again, setting it on his right palm, and made it do a convincing imitation of a _zapateado_ dance.

"Very impressive." Imelda smiled, cocking a brow herself. "But I'm not going to stay home from work tod—" Her voice broke off into a series of coughs, and she held a hand to her chest.

"Imelda…" Héctor said, his voice softening as he scooched over to sit on the edge of the bed. "This isn't like… how things were in the Land of the Living."

"Exactly," she said, wincing slightly at the roughness of her voice. "This is all just in our mind thinking that we're sick. Nothing more."

Héctor shook his head. "Not what I mean. It's…" He scratched the back of his head, looking away. "I know, back then, you had to work hard, even if you weren't feeling well… because you _had_ to, if you wanted to feed everyone."

Picking up on the hints of guilt tugging at his words, Imelda took a seat next to her husband, reaching out. "Héctor—"

He held up his hands in protest. "No, no. The point is… everything's okay, now. We don't have to worry about money, and the others can handle running the shop without you for a day."

Imelda glanced away. "But I'm not—"

Héctor cut her off again, this time unintentionally with a sneeze, nearly knocking his wig off. Startled, he held a hand to his head to straighten his hair before giving a slight laugh. "Listen, you told me to take it easy, and I'm pretty sure you're feeling the same as me. Right?"

Before she could answer him, she nearly sneezed, herself, and paused long enough to suppress it. "No."

Héctor laughed, and Imelda chuckled as well.

"Very well," she conceded. "I'll stay home… on one condition."

Héctor beamed, sitting up straight. " _¿Sí?_ "

Imelda gave him a half-smile. "You have to make tea for the both of us."

" _Sí_ , Imelda!" He went to push himself up off the bed, only to pause, and laugh again.

"What's so funny?"

"You told me last night that you wouldn't stay home with me if you got eight hours of sleep. But I guess now you get the best of both worlds, eh?"

"Ugh." She shoved him backwards onto the bed, but smiled. "I'll make the tea myself."


	9. Hiding an Injury (Héctor, Chicharrón)

Hiya folks! Sorry it's been a while. I'm still working on this challenge though! Gonna get it finished eventually... while also working on a fic for another fandom, eheh.

This oneshot contains an original character featured in one of my other fics. If you haven't read it, though, no worries-it's not necessary to understand this oneshot.

Thanks to Jaywings and WhatTimeIsItInTokyo for beta-reading!

 **Prompt: Hiding an Injury**

 **Characters: Héctor and Chicharrón, pre-movie**

* * *

 _Dia de Muertos_ was certainly a… _time_ in Shantytown.

Some residents—usually the new ones who were still upset over their situation—sulked indoors all day, though some folks coaxed them to come out. _Those_ residents—which made up the annoying vast majority of the town—stayed out all night partying and trying to make the best of things. Playing loud music, singing, playing games… and drinking. Lots of drinking.

And then there was Héctor.

Every _Dia de Muertos_ , he was almost always nowhere to be found—at least, not in Shantytown, anyway. He was always doing something or other in the upper towers, usually spending the entire night trying scheme after scheme to cross the blasted marigold bridge.

 _Idiota_.

As for Chicharrón, he'd long since given up attempting to sleep through the noise, and would usually spend the night in the quietest place he could find that wasn't his bungalow. Right now, that happened to be out on the steps leading down into the town, where he could see and listen to the nonsense transpiring below while keeping a safe distance. For company, he'd brought a few friends: a bottle of tequila and a couple shot glasses (just in case one broke, he told himself).

He'd expected this year to be a peaceful one. No one would come up here to bother him, he hoped, and Héctor would be out all night. Maybe he could even get a bit of rest out here—not that the steps were terribly comfortable, but it was at least _quiet._

Yet a few hours into the night, as Chicharrón found himself dozing, he was startled awake by the sound of feet creaking against the rickety stairs. _Great_. Of course he wasn't gonna get a break.

But there was no one coming up the stairs. Then that would mean…

Turning around, he spotted someone descending the stairs, a small _alebrije_ fluttering over their head. He knew a few people here with small spirit guides, but only one with a flying one.

Héctor was carefully stepping down the stairs, his arms clenched around his sides and his head hanging. His weird bat _alebrije_ , Pizzicato, was hovering around him like a concerned mother hen. What on earth were _they_ doing back so early?

"Down on your luck there, _chamaco_?" Chicharrón grunted, and Héctor staggered backward, nearly toppling over. "What're you doin' back so early for?"

"I, uh…" Héctor shrugged, a nervous grin showing his golden tooth. "Didn't look like it was gonna be a good time this year. Figured I'd throw in the towel early."

The bat _alebrije_ made a squeaking sound that managed the impressive feat of making his non-existent ears hurt. She probably knew, he guessed.

It was some lie, but Chicharrón didn't care enough to find the truth of it. Instead, he gestured next to himself, and Héctor hesitantly took a seat, the bat hooking herself to the back of his shoulder. It was when the young man reached his arms down to steady himself that Cheech noticed he had his jacket buttoned. _That_ stood out to him—Héctor was one of the many male skeletons who always went shirtless. More than that, he'd even told Chicharrón the reason he did so: it had been a suggestion from his father when he'd first arrived in the Land of the Dead, so he could more quickly get used to his skeletal form, and he'd never dropped the habit.

So to see him with his jacket buttoned was… _weird_.

Chicharrón wouldn't ask him the real reason why he was back early; he'd probably butchered his latest attempt at crossing the bridge, and he wasn't particularly keen on listening to Héctor cry all night. The jacket thing was different. If he were to wager a guess, he'd say that Héctor had pilfered something from the upper towers, and was hiding it in his rib cage. Wouldn't be the first time Héctor had swiped something, to be sure, though he certainly wasn't going to outright ask him about it. Too easy.

He poured Héctor a drink, and the two clinked their glasses together and knocked back their shots. Héctor seemed grateful for the drink, but was eyeing the rest of the bottle. Chicharrón picked it up and set it on his other side, so it wasn't between them. While Héctor pouted exaggeratedly, Chicharrón gestured to him. "That jacket of yours is looking a bit worn."

Héctor blinked, looking back to exchange a glance with his _alebrije_. "Yeah? In case you haven't noticed, Cheech, _everyone's_ clothes are a bit rough here."

"Just sayin'. I got a new shirt recently. Not my style, but it may work for you."

Raising his brows, Héctor sat back. " _¿En serio?_ "

"Sure. You could stop by my place and try it on—"

The bat squeaked, and Héctor laughed, shaking his head. "I think I'll pass on that one."

Ha, that was easy. Héctor had no reason to reject an offer like that if he didn't have something to hide.

"You and I both know you'd charge me for it later, Cheech."

Chicharrón paused, then rolled his eyes. Yes, he was telling the truth, but that didn't make it less annoying. "Eh," he grunted, and poured himself another shot of tequila before refilling Héctor's glass. So he'd concede defeat for now; it probably wasn't anything that interesting anyway.

The rest of the night passed on without much event. Héctor eventually excused himself to take his _alebrije_ home and feed her, and wished Chicharrón goodnight. Chicharrón himself stayed only a little while longer before deciding to return home and go to bed; the creaky old steps were making his back ache, and the parties in town seemed to have died down to a more reasonable level anyway.

He thought nothing of his and Héctor's conversation that night until the next day, when he was making his way to Arturo's house to see if he'd gathered any new items to trade. As he walked across town, however, he spotted Héctor and his _alebrije_ heading in the same direction.

Héctor's jacket was still buttoned.

Well, so much for the theory that he'd stolen something, unless he'd gotten it stuck _between_ his ribs. He wouldn't put it past him. On top of that, he'd seen that _alebrije_ enough to know when she was relaxed and when she wasn't, and right now, she had an anxious flutter to her, so there probably _was_ something wrong.

Still, Chicharrón wouldn't say anything just yet. He nodded to Héctor as they both headed to Arturo's to see if he had any new wares. Héctor came away with a new pen, while Chicharrón was happy to get another partial deck of cards.

"Not bad," Héctor remarked, twirling the pen around between his fingers. "Maybe you'll have a full deck now between the three sets you have."

"Maybe." He glanced at the young man out of the corner of his eye. "So what'd you do, anyway?"

"Wh—" The pen dropped out of his hand, and Pizzicato swooped down to grab it in her mouth. Embarrassed, he snatched it away from her, wiping it on his pant leg. "Come again?"

"Last night," Chicharrón said, turning to face him. "What _really_ happened?"

Face falling, Héctor gripped his wrist. "Ah, well… thing is, the, um, security caught onto what I was trying to do before I could really… _do_ anything." He heaved a deep sigh again, and winced. "They came after me first, and when I ran, the _police_ came next. Still managed to outrun them, but I imagine they're still not happy. So… I'm stuck here for a while, until this blows over." He shrugged helplessly. "G… great way to spend the night, huh?" he stammered, and Pizzicato landed on his shoulder, licking his cheekbone.

Well that… had not been the answer Chicharrón expected, or even really wanted, but it _did_ explain why he was back so early.

But not why he was wearing his jacket like that.

Still, he'd clearly upset Héctor enough with his question, and he wasn't about to make the guy cry right now. "Eh. Well, guess you're better off stuck here with the rest of us than stuck in a jail cell for the next week, huh."

"Heh, yeah." Héctor managed a smile, then turned to head back to his own shack, while Chicharrón turned toward his bungalow. "Let me know when you're up for a game of cards."

"Not with you," Chicharrón grunted. "You cheat."

"Not hard if you're gonna be playing with decks that are three different colors!"

Chicharrón did not invite him to play cards regardless, since it turned out he was still missing a four of diamonds.

He did, however, keep an eye on Héctor over the next few days since, sure enough, he still kept his ribs covered. Part of him wondered if he'd broken something, but several years back he _had_ broken a rib, though he never hid it. He seemed pretty open about it, in fact, as to prevent people from hugging him and subsequently hurting him. So that was probably not what was going on here.

It _could_ just be that he was trying something new, but… no, knowing Héctor, he'd definitely done something stupid like get something stuck in his ribs, and was too embarrassed to admit it. He'd figure it out at some point.

Later he invited Héctor over for drinks (and to ask him for help in moving a heavy box down from the top shelf), and as they sat around talking, Chicharrón decided to be more direct.

"So wha'd you get stuck in your ribs?"

Héctor had been mid-drink when the question had been asked, and immediately he began coughing, the alcohol spilling out of his mouth and nasal cavity. "Don't _do_ that!" he cried, rubbing frantically at his face. " _Ay!_ That _burned_." His _alebrije_ was quick to land on his shoulder and lick at his face, only to jump backward, tongue lolling in disgust.

Chicharrón rolled his eyes. "That's what you get for doin' something dumb like hiding something in your ribs and getting it stuck there."

"Wait… wait wait. You think I—?" Héctor thought it over for a moment before he started to laugh. Immediately he cried out in pain, but that didn't make him stop. " _Ay!_ That's—ha—the dumbest— _ouch_!—y-you think all this time I've— _ow!_ —had something stuck in my ribs?"

"Why not?" Chicharrón leaned back in his chair. "Seems like the sort of dumb thing you'd wind up doing."

" _No_! Haha— _uuugh…_ " Héctor leaned back as well, wrapping both of his arms around his chest. "I _wish_ that's all it was, _amigo_. No, I… hurt a rib."

"Wait—that's it?" Scratching his head, he eyed Héctor suspiciously. "What've you got it covered up for, then?"

"It _hurts_ ," he insisted, frowning. "Worse than that last time I broke a rib. That was bad enough… don't want to see this one."

Chicharrón quirked a brow. "Ain't gonna try to fix it?"

Héctor's frown deepened. "Very funny. I learned my lesson last time, okay?"

"Still owe me for that duct tape."

"Yes, I know. I'll get it back to you."

"It's been _three years_ , Héctor."

"I'll get it back!"

He wouldn't. But still, that solved that mystery, and it was as dumb as he'd predicted.

Or so he thought.

Héctor's bat was still fluttering over his head and whimpering. He'd taken it to mean she was worried over his pain, nothing more.

Should've known better than that.

It was a few days later when he'd decided to join Héctor and several other citizens to sit and play music. Chicharrón and Héctor both had their guitars, and a few other _primos_ were joining in with an accordion and a violin. It… wasn't bad to get out every once in a while to play music like this. _Once_ in a while.

Except Héctor's dumb bat was being annoying, fluttering around his head as he played, occasionally tugging at his hat. He waved her off repeatedly, but she kept coming back, eventually taking to bugging the others who had gathered around.

"Héctor," Manuel said suddenly, and the music faltered. "Stop your spirit guide, she's driving us nuts!"

Héctor whistled, and Pizzicato fluttered back over to him, only to continue whining and tugging at his bandanna. "Hey, stop it," he said, trying to wave her away. She hopped off of his shoulder, only to flutter lower and tug at the bottom of his jacket. "Don't pull on that, Pizzicato! You're gonna hurt—uh…" He trailed off, and Pizzicato let go, fluttering back with a prolonged whimper.

Frowning, Chicharrón leaned closer. "You okay there, _chamaco_?"

"Uh… yeah." There was a tone of mild surprise in his voice. "I… _am_ okay."

"Then what's the problem?"

"My rib doesn't… hurt." Staring down, Héctor set his guitar aside, and hesitantly began to unbutton the jacket. When he pulled either side away, a few of the others made sounds of surprise or disgust, while Héctor himself blanched. "…W-w-wait, wait, um, that's not… supposed to happen…"

Leaning a bit closer to get a better look, Chicharrón finally noticed what the problem was:

Héctor's rib didn't hurt, because it _wasn't there_.

The floating rib on his left side was missing almost entirely, only a small bit of it still connected to his spine. Chicharrón's face twisted into a scowl. " _¡Idiota!_ Why didn't you tell us you'd _lost_ it?!"

Pizzicato whined loudly, settling atop Héctor's head while the young man tugged the left side of his jacket over his ribs self-consciously. "I didn't _know_ I'd lost it," he said. "When I was running, I clipped a fence. All I knew was that it _hurt_ and I didn't want to look at it. I didn't have time to stop with the police after me!"

"Oh, _primo_!" Manuel cried. "If you'd told us, we could've helped you find it."

Héctor blinked. "What's stopping you now?"

Chicharrón waved a dismissive hand. "Don't matter. That bone's long gone by now, if you can't feel it. You're lucky it was just a rib." _Very_ lucky. A rib he'd be able to live without. But if it had been something more vital—an arm bone, a shoulder blade, a vertebra—that would've been another story.

"I guess so…" He shrugged helplessly, picking his guitar up again. "'Least it doesn't hurt."

Even though Héctor seemed to get over the whole thing quickly, Chicharrón couldn't help but notice that bat _alebrije_ staring at him. He glanced away, pretending to tune his guitar. Okay, so maybe he _should_ have been a bit more attentive. Héctor was still young and didn't know everything about the Land of the Dead yet. Not that it was _his_ job to watch out for him, but…

He turned back to Héctor, his gaze softening a fraction. "Just _tell_ us next time, _chamaco_."

"It's just a rib," Héctor said, an embarrassed grin crossing his features. "Nothing to worry about."

Chicharrón went back to strumming his guitar. "May not be just a _rib_ next time, at the rate you're going."

That seemed enough to settle the conversation for now, and eventually the group broke up as everyone began to turn in for the night.

As he headed back to his bungalow, however, the image of that missing rib was still stuck in his mind, and he decided he really did not like seeing someone like Héctor becoming as battered and bruised as the rest of the people here in Shantytown. An old man like him? Sure. But a young man like Héctor had a rough enough time as a soul whose life was cut short.

Maybe he'd try to be better about helping the dumb kid.

He deserved a better afterlife than this.


	10. Unnoticed Injury (Héctor, Victoria)

Hiya folks! I'm still working at this. Here's another quick one-shot!

Thanks to ThePrairieNerd and Jaywings for beta-reading!

 **Prompt: Doesn't realize they've been injured**

 **Characters: Héctor and Victoria, post-movie, pre-epilogue**

* * *

"What _is_ this?! You call this a men's size fourteen?!"

" _Sí_ , I do, _señor_."

"This isn't right! What do I look like, a clown?"

She spoke quickly. "No, _señor_ , you don't have the nose for it."

Though she swore she heard a faint chuckle, in actuality, the joke seemed to have gone over his head. "I thought not! So why would you give me shoes _this_ size?"

"Because when we measured your feet when you came in two weeks ago, that was the size we measured."

"This is _not_ the right—"

"Did you try them on, _señor_?"

The man sputtered. "What kind of idiot do you take me for?"

"So you _have_ tried them on, and they don't fit?"

"W-well, no, I… um." Grumbling, the man pulled the shoes off the counter, and stooped down to swap his old shoes with the new ones. Victoria could not see him, but she knew what his expression must have been when he very suddenly stopped grumbling. After a moment, the man rose to his feet again. "W-well the point is, it's wrong, but I don't have time to argue."

That said, he spun around and walked away with his new, perfectly-fitted Rivera shoes.

With a huff, Victoria plucked the paperwork off the counter and stepped away to file it. Honestly, she couldn't believe some of these customers—Rivera shoes _always_ fit. They were known for it.

She glanced at the clock; they always closed at noon on Saturdays, and now it was only a few minutes to; it wouldn't hurt to start to close up early. She made a quick tally of the cash drawer, looked over the counter to make sure it was clear (as though anything needed straightening when she manned the counter), and double-checked the boxes for Monday's orders.

As she locked the doors and turned off the lights, she thought about how nice it would be to spend the afternoon by herself—a nice bit of quiet time after a morning of working here and dealing with all these terrible—

 _CRASH—BANG!_

Automatically snatching a nearby hammer off a workbench, Victoria spun around, searching for the source of the noise. She could hear the sound of faint moaning somewhere, indicating that she wasn't alone. It was harder to see in the darkened workshop with the windows and doors shut, but the light shone through the cracks enough for her to find her way around, and she managed to spot where a sewing machine had been knocked off of the counter… along with several other objects she couldn't identify in the dark. Frowning, but keeping her hammer steady, she leaned down to pick up one of the objects, only to be startled at the feeling of _bone_.

" _AY_! Careful!" a familiar voice cried, and Victoria jumped back initially, only to roll her eyes when she recognized whom the voice belonged to. This had hardly been the first time he'd caused trouble since they'd taken him in a month ago.

The bone sprang from her hands as a skeleton assembled himself in front of her before leaning against the counter. He plucked his shabby straw hat off of the ground and set it back on his head. "Uh… _hola_ , Victoria!" Héctor said, waving a hand and probably giving a stupid-looking grin.

"Where did _you_ come from?" Victoria asked, crossing her arms and glaring, though she knew he could barely see it. "I don't think Mamá Imelda would like you sneaking around here."

"Eh, I wasn't _sneaking_ exactly… I was just… hanging out?" In the dim light, she could see him hold up one finger.

It took her a second to realize he was pointing _upward_ , and she stared at him deadpan. "You were sitting up there."

" _Sí_."

"In the rafters."

" _¿Sí…?_ "

" _Why_?"

"I just… wanted someplace quiet to write, so I thought I'd, um… take a seat up there, out of the way," he admitted. "I enjoyed your company, by the way. You handled those customers quite well!"

Victoria frowned, walking past him to pick up the heavy sewing machine and set it back on its workbench. "Of course I did. I've been in this business since I was a child. Did you think I handled them poorly before?"

That caught him off guard, and he faltered. "Wait, wait, no, that's not what I was… I mean—I just mean to say that you do your job well?"

She kept her glare fixed on him. His behavior brought to mind the foolish boys of Santa Cecilia who would try to win her affection with shallow praise; even now she still felt the annoyance burning in her chest at the memory. The only difference here was that Héctor sought platonic affection. In either case, it would not work. "I should hope so," she said coldly, and turned around. "I don't plan to spend the rest of my day in a pitch dark workshop, but you're welcome to stay here if you like, so long as you lock the door behind you."

With that, she made her way to the back door—

 _Clatter!_

Rolling her eyes, Victoria turned around to find that the man had fallen over, _again_ , though this time he clearly hadn't tumbled from the rafters. " _Now_ what is it?"

" _Ah_ , I, uh…" Héctor grunted as he pushed himself up on his hands, turning back toward his left side. "I… think I hit my leg on something when I fell."

Victoria stared at him for a moment before recalling the sewing machine that had been knocked to the floor, and shuddered. "How did you not notice before?"

Managing to get back to his feet, Héctor leaned heavily against the counter again. "Well, that leg usually _always_ hurts, so it's a little hard to tell sometimes when it gets messed up again." He shrugged. "Not the end of the world."

After switching the light back on, Victoria took a few steps closer to Héctor, adjusting her glasses to get a better look at the damage. His leg was bandaged with what appeared to be very old leather, so it was hard to tell if anything was different. But given he was starting to be remembered again in the living world, it must have started healing again, and the fall had disrupted that. "I see," she said, stepping back. "Are you all right?"

She'd asked it without thinking, and mentally smacked herself. Of course she wasn't cold—anyone with half a heart would ask a question like that—but knowing Héctor, he would cling to whatever scrap of affection he could.

To her surprise, he gave a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll be fine," he said, carefully leaning away from the counter. "This leg's been broken for several decades now—a little crack isn't going to make much of a difference." With that, he began limping toward the door.

Victoria watched him, but it wasn't really _him_ she was looking at.

She saw her _abuela_ as she was in life, marching into the workshop as though her joints weren't stiff and worn down, as though her heart wasn't bad, as though she hadn't just pulled an extra three hour shift the night before to correct an accounting problem.

Not only that… she saw herself sitting at her workbench, suppressing another cough, fighting to hide yet another dizzy spell, pretending her entire body wasn't aching and freezing with illness.

Shaking her head, she strode past Héctor and shut off the light, waiting at the open door. His limp was more pronounced than it had been that morning, and he was moving slower than he usually did. Victoria tapped her foot.

"I haven't got all day," she said, facing him again. Ignoring his apologetic look, she strode up to his left side, lifted his arm around her shoulders, and helped him take some of the weight off of his bad leg. The feeling of having his arm around her made her tense and uncomfortable, but it was better than having to wait for him to drag himself back to the house.

Héctor stared at her in shock before a genuine smile crossed his face. " _Gracias_."

" _Don't_ thank me," she grunted, helping him out of the workshop and locking the door behind her. "You would've taken an age to get out of there and forgotten to lock the door behind you, and I don't want someone breaking into the workshop."

Héctor was still smiling. "Of course, _mija_."

A jolt ran through her, and she grit her teeth for a moment. "I've seen you walk with a bad leg before. I know you can pick up the pace, _Héctor_."

Finally his smile dropped, and he nodded. " _Sí_ , Victoria."

It didn't make her feel much better, and she swallowed down her frustration as they approached the house. "Just… be careful next time."

He nodded, and she helped him inside the house and into the living room. As he eased himself into a chair, she made to leave, but stopped, feeling like she should say something more. She turned back to him. "And Héctor…"

He looked up, hopeful. " _¿Sí?_ "

" _Por favor_ , _don't_ sit in the rafters of the workshopever again."

"Heh… of course, Victoria."


	11. Cry Into Chest (Héctor, Victoria)

Hiya folks! Still got a few more of these prompts left. This particular one takes place after my other fic, _Neither Can You_.

Thanks to Jaywings and WhatTimeIsItInTokyo for beta-reading. Hope you enjoy!

 **Prompt: Cry Into Chest**

 **Characters: Héctor and Victoria, post-movie, pre-epilogue (post-** _ **Neither Can You**_ **)**

* * *

 _1:37 A.M._

Héctor glared at the clock, its hands illuminated by the faint moonlight from his window, as though the device was solely responsible for waking him up, and not the painful nightmare he'd just experienced

Quite _literally_ painful, as the phantom ache in his absent hand reminded him. He grit his teeth, rubbing his empty right wrist; his prosthetic hand was sitting on the nightstand.

Eventually the pain faded to more tolerable levels, and Héctor re-settled himself against the stack of pillows at his back. Even several weeks after the incident, he still had to sleep sitting upright as he waited for his ribs to heal. The doctor said he was healing well, but it sure didn't feel like it, most days.

He found himself staring up at the ceiling, and, when that failed to lull him to sleep, turned to look out the window. (He always kept the curtains drawn these days; moonlight reminded him more of Shantytown, of being in his shack—which, while not terribly comfortable, felt _safe_ at least. The pitch darkness of a house… not so much.) When this also failed to help him sleep, he gave it one last attempt, fought with his one hand to pull open the window a crack, and breathed in the fresh air.

And coughed at the smell of cigarette smoke.

Well, wonderful. Good to know some late-night smokers were taking their well-past-midnight walks by this house.

Growling, he yanked the window shut again and kicked off his sheets; he wasn't catching any sleep, so there was no point in chasing it.

Héctor strapped his prosthetic hand onto his arm, pleased to see that it was getting easier to do so, and changed out of his nightclothes and into a new outfit. That settled, he limped out into the hall, careful to make as little noise as possible, and made his way down the stairs. Part of him realized it was probably not good for him to give in to insomnia like this, but… at the same time, he didn't mind so much these days.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he frowned to see there was no light coming from the living room. Immediately he berated himself for even hoping Victoria would be up—he loved spending time with his granddaughter, but he wasn't glad that she experienced insomnia, too. He was happy that she wasn't dealing with it tonight.

Though she often did.

It was common to find her downstairs in the middle of the night, reading or sitting quietly with Dante. Whenever he found her like that, he would sit with her, writing in his notebook while she read. He'd learned that she preferred the quiet, and so never initiated conversation with her—he only spoke when she did. When he played by her rules, he found her to be a friendlier person than she initially seemed. Usually, anyway—though she had been warming up to him, there were times when… Well, it was a work in progress, just like it was with Imelda.

She was so much like her _abuela_.

A loud whimper brought Héctor out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see Dante standing before him and looking antsy. Sighing, he stooped down to scratch the dog's head and limped over to the door to let him out.

Only to jump back at the sight of Pepita, who was standing as close to the porch as she physically could, one wing stretched over the it, blocking it from view from the yard and street. The cat let out a rumbling _purr_ , but that did nothing to change how strange the sight of her was… especially with the scent of cigarette smoke so pungent and close.

The thoughts ran through his head quickly: whoever was smoking was _here_ , they were intruding on the property, and Pepita was poised to attack.

Panic surged through his marrow faster than his brain could catch up (with the logic that Pepita did not look threatening and would probably not purr near an intruder), and he stepped out the door, slamming it shut so he could see the rest of the porch and do… something.

But there was no intruder nearby; only Victoria, who looked just as tense as he felt, her fists clenched and ready to punch, her teeth grit around the cigarette in her mouth.

… _Oh._

It took Héctor a moment to settle, tension slowly leaving his frame as Victoria did the same, bringing her hands down, though she kept one fist clenched. The other hand she reached up to her cigarette, taking it out of her mouth so she could blow out a ring of smoke.

"What?" she asked, and Héctor realized he'd been staring. "It's not like it can kill me _now_."

Héctor shook his head, sheepishly gripping his arm and pretending to be suddenly very interested in Pepita, though the realization that his granddaughter was out here _smoking_ still shook him. He'd known she'd been a smoker in life, yes—Coco had told him as much—but he'd assumed she'd quit at some point. Apparently not.

Still, he'd never… _seen_ her do it before. Stealing a glance back at her, he found her gaze turned upward, peering through the gaps between Pepita's pinion feathers and at the sky above. She slowly exhaled a puff of smoke through her nasal cavity. He should have smelled it before, he realized—on her clothes or on her breath. But he'd never once noticed it.

"…Are you all right?" he offered. His voice was still scratchy from his injuries.

"I'm fine," she replied quickly. "It's a nice night, and I thought I would step outside to enjoy it for a while."

Before she even finished talking, a cold wind picked up, knocking a cloud of cigarette smoke off to the side, where Dante was now standing. The dog took one whiff of the air and gagged, bolting off with his tail between his legs.

Yes, surely a wonderful night. Héctor fought a shiver, hugging his chest carefully, but took a step closer. "Could I… stay out here with you a while?"

Victoria nodded, but kept silent.

He tried to watch her body language more closely. While she held her cigarette in her mouth, her hand moved to grip her wrist tightly. At first he thought she must simply be nervous, but… no, that wasn't a nervous gesture. Her hand was gripping her wrist so hard that, had she been alive, she would probably be cutting off the circulation.

He then remembered a couple months ago, when he'd seen one of the bones from that wrist separated from the rest, and in the hands of a murderer.

Gritting his teeth, Héctor forced the memory out of his mind before he became lost in anger, and tried to focus on the present. "It _is_ a nice night," he said, and she glanced at him. "A little cold, admittedly."

Victoria nodded, looking away, only to pause and look back, eyeing him in… concern? But why would— _oh_.

Recalling the terrible chill he'd suffered for nearly a week, he realized just what she would be worried about, and sighed, shaking his head. "I'm all right," he said, leaning against the wall. "This is… nothing like that. Not even close." It wasn't an inescapable iciness, something that he barely fought against with many pillows, blankets, and a heating pad sitting in his rib cage. This was simply a chilly night, nothing more.

Victoria watched him carefully, as though to be sure he was telling the truth, before relaxing as well. Her cigarette was nearly burnt up now, and she breathed out one last stream of smoke before dropping the cigarette butt to the ground, stamping it quietly until it was extinguished and lost between the floorboards.

Héctor nearly pointed out that people would still be able to smell it in the morning, but bit his metaphorical tongue. She was already on edge; there was no need to push it. Though he did wonder briefly if she would get out another cigarette, but instead she remained still, her hand gripping her wrist tightly once again as she stared down at the porch where the cigarette butt had been.

Suddenly the shadows shifted around them, and they both gave a start, but it was only Pepita furling her wing to her side again. The big cat leaned over to lick her wing, and Héctor briefly wondered how long she'd been shielding Victoria like that, and for what reason. He could ask… but another glance at Victoria told him he shouldn't.

"Should we… head back in?" he asked, attempting a smile. It was late, and cold, and sitting on the couch in a warm building sounded wonderful.

Victoria did not reply, instead staring down at the floor off to the side, her arms crossed tightly, still gripping her bad wrist. Dante climbed up onto the porch again, but she did not acknowledge him.

Sighing, Héctor leaned against the wall again. If there was some trick to making her talk, he didn't know what it was, so he kept silent. When she still said nothing a few minutes later, he turned toward the door. "I'm heading in—"

"Wait."

He paused, looking back at her, but she still wouldn't look at him. If it were possible, she seemed even more tense than before. " _¿Sí?_ "

Again she was silent, and Héctor fidgeted, rubbing his own arm.

"What is it, m—Victoria?"

Still she didn't answer.

Héctor took a few steps closer, but said nothing more this time. As much as he disliked standing out here in the cold, he would wait. If she had something she needed to say, then he would listen.

On the other side of the porch, Dante approached Victoria, nudging her side and whining. Finally she moved, reaching down to pet the dog's head… and finally she spoke, her voice tight:

"What _you_ went through was worse."

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and Héctor's heart plummeted. "Victoria, no."

" _Don't_ try to deny it. I wasn't the one who had their bones methodically broken and torn and stolen until they couldn't walk or speak or—" Her voice hitched, and she went silent.

Limping closer to her, Héctor reached out to touch her shoulder, but managed to hold himself back. "That doesn't mean you went through _nothing_."

"It does, compared to _you_."

"That's not how it works," he said, and swallowed back the tightness in his throat. He wanted to turn her around, or to limp around to her side so he could _see_ her, to look her in the eyes and tell her that she was allowed to be upset… but that wasn't the way to approach it with her.

Héctor thought back, pressing his knuckles against his forehead as he racked his brain, then perked up. "…You know," he began, leaning casually against one of the wooden pillars supporting the roof above the porch. "I had an _amigo,_ Tomas,back in Shantytown who didn't like talking much."

While Victoria didn't answer, her head turned slightly in his direction.

"Usually sat in a corner away from everyone else, and just listened to conversations. We'd try to get him to join in, but he'd just grin and wave us off." He imitated the gesture, though Victoria didn't see it. "Never really understood why he was like that… well… not until he told me." Tipping his head back, he stared up at the sky. "Was… ehhh… '42, I think, night after _Dia de Muertos_ , and I didn't feel like sleeping, so I stayed out late. Everyone else had gone back home, except for him. He kept me company. And… then he spoke."

"What did he say?"

Héctor brightened, turning to find that she was finally looking at him. "Well, first, he scared me bad enough to make me fall off my stool." (While she didn't crack a smile, he saw one of her brow-bones quirk, and he counted it as a victory.) "Once I pulled myself together… he said he wanted to tell me some things. At first I asked him why, but then…" His smile fell at the memory. "I… realized his bones were, um… well."

"He was being forgotten," Victoria finished for him, and he nodded slowly.

"He hadn't begun shimmering yet, but yes." He heaved a sigh, trying to focus, though his voice was starting to get sore from talking so much. "He told me his story, though he, eh, left some things vague. Near the end of his life, he was captured by a group of men who interrogated him—tried to get information out of him. Apparently it was important information—they held him for days and days, but he wouldn't tell them. Spent his time instead yelling at them. I guess… they got so fed up with him, that they cut his tongue out."

For a moment he glanced back at Victoria, hoping that he hadn't lost her in the gruesomeness of the account, but instead she was staring down at the floor, thinking.

"Couldn't talk for the rest of his life… When he died, he could, but he… couldn't bring himself to do it often, after what happened in life. There was always something in him… afraid someone was gonna try to shut him up again if he talked too much." Héctor shrugged, then paused to rub his neck, careful to avoid the still-healing gouges in his vertebrae. "So that was his story. After he told me, I felt… dumb, for being sad about the things I was. All of us in the shanties were nearly-forgotten, but… at least I could still talk and sing. He had it worse. I… told him as much."

Victoria looked up, eyeing him.

"And… he told me something that stuck. He told me… everyone's had it worse than someone. Doesn't mean we're not allowed to be sad."

And Victoria turned away suddenly, letting out a shaking breath. "…Do you think that's true?" she asked, her voice once again tight.

" _Sí_ , I don't think Tomas is the kind to lie. But… then, he never talked much, so I'm not sure—"

"Not _that_ ," she snapped.

"…Oh." Héctor finally stepped away from the pillar. "Of course, Victoria."

After a tense moment, she heaved a sigh, and spoke with a shaking voice: "If you _must_ know… I… I dreamed _they_ came back."

She didn't have to specify who _they_ were. Héctor clenched his fists at the memory.

"They broke into the house… and took me, and tried to break my arm." Her hand was grasping said arm again, so tightly that Héctor almost worried she would break it herself. "I woke up, and rushed out here." She shook her head. "It shouldn't be like this—this shouldn't still be bothering me. It wasn't even that terrible."

"It _was_ ," Héctor said lowly, surprised at his own anger. "Those _cabróns_ —they shouldn't have done it in the first place!" The anger burned within his ribs, but he swallowed it down, shaking his entire body—that wasn't what this was about. "Victoria," he went on, calmer now, "it _was_ terrible. I… have nightmares about it, too."

"But it wasn't—"

" _Victoria_ ," he said, not unkindly. When she looked up, he held out his good arm, just as he had the night he'd lost his hand.

She looked at his outstretched arm, and, hesitating only a moment, finally stepped closer, allowing him to wrap his arm around her.

"It's okay," he whispered, slowly drawing his other arm around her, careful that the prosthetic didn't snag on anything. "They can't get to us anymore. They can't hurt us. It's okay."

He wasn't sure what did it, but either something in his words, voice, or gesture must have gotten through to her, because she sank down, her face buried against his chest, her shoulders shaking. At the same time, Héctor felt a rush of terrible emotions surging through him—anger at those men for even _daring_ to go after his granddaughter, and agonized sorrow over what she had gone through and the aftermath she was now dealing with. Before he knew it, he realized she wasn't the only one shedding tears.

For some time he held her as the two of them cried, eventually becoming aware of Dante leaning against the two of them and whining, and Pepita purring her heart out once more. Finally they stepped away from each other, Victoria pushing up her glasses to rub the heel of her hand into her eyesockets. For someone who had just been crying, she hid it well. While she still didn't look her best, the tension was gone from her frame. "It… really is too cold to be standing out here," she admitted.

Héctor scrubbed away at his own tears and smiled at her. "Let's go in," he said, and together they walked back into the house, Héctor pausing for a moment to scratch Pepita's head, and allowing Dante in with them.

Evidently neither of them felt like sleeping just yet, because they both found themselves heading over to the living room to take a seat on the couch. Dante eagerly hopped up between them, stretching out so that his head was on Victoria's lap, and his legs were kicking into Héctor. He frowned at the dog, but couldn't be _too_ mad at him, since he seemed to be cheering Victoria up a little.

Victoria had retrieved her book from the small table beside the couch and held it open with one hand, while she kept the other on Dante's head to scratch him behind the ears. Héctor watched this for a short while before getting out his notebook to attempt writing.

" _Gracias_ for listening to me, _abuelo_."

Initially Héctor merely nodded and smiled, only to give a start, staring at Victoria in shock. But she was still reading her book… with the faintest hint of a smile on her face.

Trying to hold back a sniffle and failing, Héctor pretended to be very interested in his notebook. " _D-de nada_ … _mija_."

He flinched, expecting an angry retort from his granddaughter to not refer to her as such, but Victoria merely kept reading.

Wiping again at the tears in his eyesockets—happy tears this time—Héctor smiled.

This _absolutely_ made up for the insomnia.


	12. Tooth Knocked Out (Hctor, Imelda, Ernst)

Hiya folks! Yes, I'm still updating this. I actually have the rough drafts of the last few oneshots done-just need to get htem edited! And speaking of editing, a big thanks to Jaywings and Rainy for looking over this fic for me!

 **Prompt: Tooth Knocked Out**

 **Characters: Héctor, Imelda, Ernesto, Óscar, Felipe (pre-movie** **—characters are teens)**

* * *

Héctor never made claims to being a genius, but he had to admit there were some things he really… didn't understand. Like why Ernesto, for some reason, didn't seem to like Imelda so much anymore. Or… that's what it seemed like, anyway. He wasn't sure.

As he and Ernesto walked along the side of the street, the afternoon sun bright above them as they headed toward the plaza to play music as usual, Héctor thought back to last night. The three of them had been lingering by the gate of Imelda's family's property, Héctor standing between his two friends, his gaze to Imelda as she talked with them about watching their performances. Yet even as he focused on her, he couldn't help but feel Ernesto's gaze on both him and Imelda, as though he were waiting for something… probably for her to stop talking, so they could go home. And then after they'd said goodnight to Imelda, when Héctor had brought up how busy she tended to be and how he hoped she'd get to watch them tomorrow, Ernesto had rubbed his hand over his face and muttered something sarcastic in reply.

That hadn't even been the first time Ernesto had acted like that, either. It had been going on for a while now… at least a few months, Héctor was pretty sure.

It was weird. They'd all been friends for ages, since they were kids, so why was Ernesto acting so strangely now?

Well, whatever. Héctor would try to not let it bother him _too_ much. Though really, he couldn't imagine why Ernesto wouldn't like Imelda. She was really smart, and was a great singer and dancer, and she had the most _beautiful_ voice… Wait, what were they doing again?

His foot jabbed into something, and just ahead, Ernesto yelped. " _Ay!_ Watch where you're going!" Glancing over his shoulder (and the guitar strapped to his back), Ernesto finally stopped and turned around. "Daydreaming again?"

" _¿Qué?_ Oh, no, sorry! I was just… thinking… about… oh, maybe I was daydreaming." He gave an embarrassed laugh.

Ernesto shrugged. "I daydream too—thinking about how you and I are going to be world-famous one day!" He grinned, and Héctor couldn't help but smile with him—it was hard not to get excited when they talked about their grand dream. But then Ernesto's smile turned into more of a smirk. "But I don't do it in the middle of the road and bump into people with my giant feet." With that he gave Héctor's shoulder a playful shove and resumed walking.

"I don't have giant feet!" he cried in protest, but found himself staring down at his shoes anyway as he resumed following Ernesto. They… weren't _really_ giant, were they? He looked between his own feet and Ernesto's, realizing to his dismay that his _were_ larger. _Ay_ , he hoped Imelda hadn't noticed.

"Don't worry, _hermanito,_ you'll grow into them," Ernesto replied, waving a hand dismissively. "Hopefully, anyway."

Frowning, Héctor adjusted the guitar strap slung across his front as they continued down toward the plaza, staring down at the shadows they cast before them. He knew Ernesto was just teasing, but the worry still nagged at him—he knew he had a big nose and big ears, but having big feet on top of that? He must look ridiculous. Ugh, why was this bothering him, anyway? _Focus—you're going to go play for tips in the plaza again today. Think about that instead._

Confidently he strode up next to his friend's left side and turned to look at him. "So… do you know if Imelda will be there, when we get to the plaza?"

Ernesto's shoulders dropped, and he rubbed eyes exaggeratedly with his hand. " _Héctor_ , why are you talking about _her_ right now?"

There it was again! Ernesto _didn't like her_! "She's our friend, remember?" he retorted, tilting his head.

"Oh, _sí_ , 'our friend,'" Ernesto muttered. "Of course that's what she is."

"Uhh… yeah?" Héctor scratched the back of his head. "Why are you saying it like that?"

"Are you—?! _Ay! Nevermind_!" After tossing his hands up in exasperation, Ernesto dropped both his arms and the subject, like that was all that needed to be said.

Crossing his arms, Héctor walked in silence for a few paces before speaking again: "So you think she _will_ be there, or…?"

"Ugh _, no_. She's right there, at the fruit stall."

"What—?!" Héctor whipped his head over, looking past Ernesto, and sure enough he spotted Imelda and her brothers talking to a vendor at a stall across the street. Her hair looked very nice today—for certain she had a new ribbon in it—and even though she was only out here shopping, she looked so pretty today! But as for him…

He looked down at himself, seeing a dirt stain on his pants from when he'd tripped earlier that day, and quickly stooped down to wipe at it. If Imelda looked nice, he should, too, right? But as he tried to brush the dirt off of his pants (to no avail), he found himself staring down at his feet again. They really were stupidly big—he hoped she didn't notice.

Looking up to check, his gut clenched when he realized she had turned to look at him—staring _right_ at him. _Ay_ , what was he doing?! Quickly he picked up his pace and turned away, face flushing as he hoped Imelda really _hadn't_ noticed he was staring—

 _BANG!_

Stars exploded in his vision with an eruption of pain as he staggered backward and fell, covering his face. He let out a howl, his hands muffling the noise, and doubled over as he tried to figure out justwhat on earth he'd done.

"Héctor?!" Ernesto was immediately at his side, stooping down. " _Idiota_ , you walked right into the corner of a building!"

Normally Héctor might have tried to say something in defense, but as it was, he moaned into his hands as the intensity of the pain began to fade.

"Héctor, are you all right?"

 _Imelda._ Of course she'd seen all that.

"Oh no, is that—"

"—blood?!"

…And her brothers had too, of course.

He could hear the wince in Ernesto's voice: "Hooey, that's… not good…"

"Move your hands, Héctor," Imelda said, her voice gentle but urgent. "Let me see."

Already feeling his face flushing again, Héctor pulled his hands away, only to realize his cheeks weren't the only things that were red—his hands were covered in blood. " _AY!_ Wh—what happened?!"

No sooner had the words left his tongue than he tasted the blood, and felt something was _wrong_ in his mouth.

Oh… oh _no_.

Looking up past his hands, he saw Imelda and Ernesto both wincing away from him, while the twins both stooped down on either side of him, scrutinizing the dirt.

"Oh, there it is," one of them said, while the other nodded gravely.

"The rest of it, anyway."

Héctor looked down, and sure enough, past the drops of blood on the road was a large chunk of something white. Immediately he clamped his hands over his mouth, howling into them again in despair.

"Stop, you're getting blood everywhere," Ernesto said gently as he fished through his pockets. He pulled out a handkerchief, which Héctor readily took, wiping his hands and mouth on it before holding it against his gums, where most of his tooth was missing. "So much for playing in the plaza today…"

" _Thorry…_ " Héctor slurred miserably, trying to speak around the wad of material he held in his mouth.

"That's all right!" one of the twins—Óscar, he realized—piped up.

" _¡Sí!_ You put on quite the show anyway!" Felipe agreed, grinning.

"You should have seen yourself!" Óscar went on.

"You looked away from Imelda and _bam!_ " Felipe exclaimed, slapping one hand against another.

" _Cállate_ , you two," Imelda said, shoving both of her brothers simultaneously. But she glanced back at Héctor, biting her lip, and he shrank into himself, feeling his cheeks heat up again. "Héctor," she went on. "You should—"

"I-I need to go home," he stammered, shakily rising to his feet and taking off down the road. As he ran, he scrubbed at the frustrated tears that were blurring his vision.

 _Dios,_ he was such an idiot…

* * *

That night, Héctor stayed in his room in the tiny house he and Ernesto shared. He didn't come out when Ernesto came home, and didn't say anything when his friend suggested that he take a trip to the dentist. As if completely embarrassing himself in front of Imelda wasn't bad enough—would he _also_ have to go to a doctor? No, no thank you. He and Ernesto hadn't been saving up their money just to waste it all on some doctor who probably wouldn't even help.

Still, Ernesto wasn't leaving just yet.

" _Lo siento_ —I should have warned you before you walked into the corner," he said, and he genuinely sounded upset. It didn't make Héctor feel much better. "Do you want to come out?"

"No… it'sss all right," Héctor replied, and immediately cringed at the way the gap in his teeth caused a whistling noise.

Ernesto snorted in amusement. "You sound like you did when you'd lost that one baby tooth."

Héctor groaned. At least then it had only been a baby tooth, not a permanent one. He was _fifteen_ , not a kid. Ugh, if this was what Ernesto thought of him, Imelda's opinion couldn't be much better…

"…I was only joking, _hermanito_. I… hope you feel better."

Finally Ernesto left, and Héctor lay back on his bed, sighing. What _was_ he going to do? He surely couldn't keep going on like this, missing a front tooth. Could he even _sing_ without whistling through the gap in his teeth? Ugh…

At least he'd stopped bleeding. He stared down at the bloody handkerchief in his hand, wincing at its appearance. Briefly he wondered if it could even be cleaned—he wasn't sure Ernesto would want it back otherwise. There was so much red on it, it could practically pass for a red scarf.

A thought struck him, and he turned to look at a few clothing articles on his dresser…

* * *

The next morning, Ernesto knocked on his door again. " _Buenas dias, hermanito_ ," he said. "Are you going to get that taken care of?"

" _Sssí_ , don't worry about it, Ernesssto," he called out. "I'll get it taken care of, and… and I-I'll meet you around noon at the plaza."

Apparently pacified, Ernesto left, and Héctor finally crept out of his room to eat breakfast and get himself ready. What he was about to do wasn't ideal, but… hey, it was better than wasting money at a doctor. And continuing to look like an idiot with a gap in his teeth.

Close to noon, Héctor left the house to set his plan in action. Unfortunately it… didn't seem to be going as well as he'd hoped, if the odd glances from the people around were anything to go by. But… well… better than how he'd looked the day prior.

As he neared the plaza, a familiar figure came into view—Ernesto had apparently gotten impatient, even though it wasn't quite noon yet. He moved down the street in quick strides, but stopped dead when he noticed Héctor. Héctor grinned sheepishly, though he knew Ernesto couldn't see it, and waved.

" _Hola_ , Ernessto," he said, voice muffled from the red bandana that covered his mouth.

"What is _this_?!" Ernesto cried, charging up to him. "You told me you were going to fix it!"

"I did," Héctor replied, straightening his back and gesturing to his mouth. "Now no one will sssee it."

Ernesto rolled his eyes. "And no one will _hear_ you, either. Héctor, that's not a solution! You can't sing like this!"

"I can… play guitar, ssstill?"

For a brief moment Ernesto looked like he was considering the option, but he shook himself. "Héctor, _no_ , you _can't_ be seri—"

" _Héctor_?" And there was Imelda, standing down the street and staring at him in bewilderment. Her brothers, like before, were with her, adjusting their glasses to get a better look at him, and then both of them snickering.

Suddenly Héctor felt like this idea… may not have been the best one.

After shooting her brothers a warning glance, Imelda quickly approached her friends, and Ernesto took a step back with an exaggerated eye-roll. She ignored it. "Why are you wearing _that_?"

"I—um… I was just… f-fixing the problem?" he said, shrinking back as Imelda examined him. He was keenly aware of the frown on her face, and suddenly wished he'd stayed home.

"That's not fixing the problem," Imelda said firmly, and the disapproving look made him feel like he would shrink into the floor.

"Oh," was all he could say, taking another step back.

Her gaze softened. "Héctor… are you all right?" she asked.

"He knocked out his tooth yesterday, in case you didn't notice," Ernesto muttered, and Imelda gave him a look.

" _Other_ than that."

"I… uh." Héctor knocked his knuckles together, unable to meet Imelda's gaze. "I… _lo sssiento_. I've just… been… worried that I looked… ssstupid… to you."

Sighing, Ernesto stepped away. "I'll leave you two to sort this out," he said, and moved to lean against a nearby building, his arms crossed.

"Stupid?" Imelda repeated, furrowing her brow. "Why do you think that?"

He kicked his (stupidly big) feet, staring down at them. "Just… I look really ssstupid. And… I do ssstupid ssstuff—" _and_ sound _stupid with this hiss…!_ " —I d-didn't mean to ssstare at you, or… walk into the wall."

" _Oh_ ," Imelda said, and he winced, stealing a glance at her. He'd expected her to look at him in disapproval, but instead she had turned away, rubbing her cheek and appearing… flustered? That was strange. "I… hadn't realized you were staring." Shaking her head, she looked back at him, seeming calm again. "But I _know_ you didn't mean to walk into the wall. That wasn't stupid, that was just ridiculous."

…Well… okay, _ridiculous_ isn't as bad as _stupid_.

"This, however," she tugged at his bandana, loosening it from around his face, "is stupid."

Héctor gave an embarrassed—but genuine—laugh, allowing her to pull the cloth away. "Yeah, that… probably wasssn't the besst idea. …Sssorry, Imelda."

"Don't worry about it. Come with me." And without warning, she grabbed him by the hand, taking him down the street.

For a moment Héctor's brain went blank in shock, but he soon found himself squeezing her hand back, his feet stumbling to keep up with her. "Uh, _sssí_! Sssure thing, Imelda!" Any embarrassment in him was chased away by a pleasant warmth, but it took him a minute to realize that she hadn't exactly stated what their destination was. "Wait, wait, where are we going?"

"To the dentist."

"…WHAT?!"

All the good feelings were suddenly gone, replaced with a deep terror in the pit of his stomach. Immediately Héctor tried to pull away, but Imelda held on tighter. " _ERNESSSTO!_ " he cried, turning back to look at his friend. " _¡AYUDAME!_ "

To his relief, Ernesto approached them, eyeing Imelda, who stopped in her tracks. "Let him go, Imelda."

After a moment, Imelda let go of Héctor's hand, and he drooped in relief, not immediately noticing as Ernesto stepped up to him. " _Gracias, herman—ooooOOO!_ "

And Ernesto hoisted him up into the air, slinging him over his shoulder, and resumed marching the way Imelda had been dragging him in the first place.

"NOOO!" he cried, squirming to break free of Ernesto's grasp, but Ernesto held him firm. "You betrayed me!"

"It's for your own good, _hermanito_."

Imelda, meanwhile, grinned up at him. "If you're so scared of going to the dentist, I could always ask my brothers to help."

"Oh, _¡Sí!_ " Óscar called, and Héctor realized they'd been following a short distance behind.

Felipe hurried to his brother's side. "We've been working on inventing a new kind of glue—"

"That could _probably_ be used on bones, like teeth."

"Possibly!"

"Ideally!"

"If you still have that tooth you knocked out—"

" _No! ¡No gracias!_ " Héctor called, horrified at the idea of them attempting to _glue_ his original tooth back into his mouth. But Ernesto laughed, as did Imelda, and for a moment, Héctor forgot about his fear of the dentist, and his worry about money.

It was… really nice to hear Imelda laugh.

He'd like to hear that more often.


	13. Mugging (Héctor, Chicharrón)

And here's the next one! Thanks to Jaywings and WhatTimeIsItInTokyo for beta-reading.

 **Prompt: Mugging**

 **Characters: Héctor, Chicharrón, pre-movie**

* * *

The night was cool, but not chilly, the air crisp and refreshing in his... well, where his lungs would have been. The sky was clear, the stars were bright, and the moon was full—it would have been a perfect night to sit outside, either on the rooftops or around a fire, and talk with his nearly-forgotten family.

But Héctor was far from Shantytown tonight.

He wished he weren't. He would rather be anywhere but here, doing anything other than what he was about to do.

Drawing in a breath, he cringed, bringing his hands to his cervical vertebrae, still tender from a few days ago.

 _"You think you can just waltz in here, take_ our _stuff?"_

 _"I'm sorry,_ señor _, really—I'll be on my way and never bother you agai—"_

 _"Oh, no, you're staying_ right _here._ "

He swallowed down the pain in his throat. His voice was still rough—it was part of the reason he hadn't spoken to anyone in Shantytown for a few days. A small part of the reason, anyway.

 _"What do you guys think? That left femur of yours would fetch a nice price on the market, eh?"_

 _"What—no, no,_ por favor _, don't! I-I promise I won't come back, I won't say anything—"_

 _"But you want this, right? You took a pretty gutsy risk coming here to try to swipe it."_

 _"I-I..."_

 _"How about this. You do us a favor, and we'll consider_ not _pawning off your unbroken bones. And maybe throw this in as well."_

 _"I..._ sí, _okay, I'll do whatever you want!"_

Whatever they wanted... He pinched the bridge of his nose, reminding himself _not_ to use that phrase again.

 _"Wait, wait, no, that's... I-I don't have..."_

 _"If you don't have that kind of money on you, we have no problem exchanging your bones for it."_

 _"...How long will you give me?"_

 _"Get back to us in three days. Right here, the morning following the third night."_

 _"Thr—you can't be—?!"_

 _"If we don't get it then, we'll track you down_. _Don't think you can hide,_ amigo _. We have ways of finding you. So do we have a deal or not?"_

 _"..._ Sí. _"_

 _"Good."_

It was not the kind of money that he could make running errands. It was not the kind of money he could make on odd jobs, or even pawning off every item in his possession. He'd tried, even—sold his good pens, the only chair in his shack, even the blankethe used to keep himself warm at night. He spent a day running every errand Ceci threw at him. (She'd asked him what he was trying to save up for this time, what the plan this year was, what happened to his throat. He couldn't give her a straight answer.) The money he'd saved up had straight-up not been enough.

It was the night of the third day, and the money was due tomorrow morning.

Héctor had no other choice.

...At least, that's what he told himself. The police were still an option. They weren't exactly on good terms with him, and he wouldn't exactly be in the clear himself given he'd been the one trying to steal in the first place (in order to illegally cross the flower bridge), but he could inform them of the criminals who were threatening him. The police could take care of that, and... well... he'd probably be arrested, but even a week in jail was better than permanently losing half his bones to some scumbags in the underworld of the underworld.

But... if he went to the police and got himself arrested, he wouldn't be able to cross. _Dia de Muertos_ was only in two days. Even if by some miracle they _didn't_ arrest him, he wouldn't be able to get...

Sighing, Héctor shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. No, he had to do this. If he wanted a shot at seeing his Coco again... he had to.

He _had_ to.

After waiting for a few more moments, he surveyed his surroundings again—the buildings were tall here, and quite old. It was still several layers above Shantytown, but old enough that very few people actually lived here these days. The Land of the Dead, normally quite bright at night, was dark here, with few working streetlamps and no lights shining through any windows. As a result, it was not the safest place to be. Héctor had learned that the hard way, and discovered the reason why it could be so unsafe.

And now... he was about to _become_ part of the reason why it was so unsafe.

 _It's for Coco_ , he told himself, shutting his eyes. _It's for her. You can just do this once, so you can see her again, and then never do it again._

He peered down the street from his spot in the shadows of the alley, looking in both directions, but it was still clear. Something within him desperately hoped that someone would be here, while another, deeper part of him begged whatever higher power existed to not let a soul cross his path. But it was either this, getting torn apart, or missing another chance at crossing the bridge.

Leaning against a cold wall, he waited in silence, listening for any sounds of movement. For the past few hours, he'd only heard the occasional stray _alebrije_ , which soared in the distance overhead. There were no creatures here in these streets, skeletal, _alebrije_ , or otherwise.

As he waited, his mind drifted, and he tried to picture how old Coco was now. It was hard to imagine her as anything other than the small child he'd left behind, hard to imagine anything other than her soft, young voice. But she was in her seventies now, he knew—older than Imelda had lived. He wondered what sort of family she'd made for herself—if she had children of her own, if they had their own children. He wondered if she was in good health now.

Maybe he'd get to see for himself in a couple days, if everything went right.

If it didn't... well, maybe he would be lucky enough to try again next year. He couldn't count on it, though—as much as he hated to think of his daughter in such a state, she may not be in the best health. This could very well be his last chance.

He was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly missed the sound of footsteps. Sucking in air through his teeth, he listened—yes, someone was absolutely walking down the street, coming around the corner down the block. The footfalls were hesitant, as though trying to make as little noise as possible, though occasionally they moved in short bursts of speed. It was either someone who was very scared... or a criminal.

He desperately hoped it was not the latter.

Sure enough, someone came into view—they had a slight frame, and he could just make out the skirt they wore—a woman, then? Her feet made a _pock, pock, pock_ noise as they made contact with the ground, and her bones did not clack—at least, not loud enough for him to hear. What was a soul like this doing here?

The still night air easily carried her quiet voice:

"No... no, th-this isn't right."

Héctor froze up, backing against the wall. She definitely sounded afraid.

"I thought I saw the path was...? Maybe it was f-further down?"

She was lost.

Carefully he poked his head out again—she wouldn't see him in the shadow of the alleyway like this. She was closer now, and he could see her better—from her frame and her voice, she sounded like she'd died young, what he could see of her clothing looked nice and clean, and she carried a big purse slung over her opposite shoulder. Meanwhile, her body language radiated fear and unease.

His immediate instinct was to approach her, reassure her, tell her the correct way to go, and, if she let him (people didn't tend to trust the nearly-forgotten, after all), help guide her out of this terrible place himself. But he held himself back, swallowing down the lump in his throat and feeling it plummet down to his stomach cavity.

No, he wasn't here to help her.

 _It's for Coco_ , he told himself again, gritting his teeth as he ducked back into the alley. _It's for Coco, it's for her, you_ have _to do this._

The woman was getting closer, though a part of him _prayed_ that she would turn around, head back the other way.

 _It's for Coco._

She was getting closer. He could hear her nervous breathing.

 _It's for Coco._

Closer now. The stars reflected off of the tears in her eyes.

 _It's for Coco._

He did not want to do this.

 _But it's for Coco._

He did _not_ want to do this.

 _But if you don't do this, you'll never see her again._

She was right in front of him, and he lunged at her, aiming for the purse.

The woman's scream tore through the night, and Héctor crashed to the ground—he'd missed. Immediately she took off running, and he reformed, charging after her. " _Get back here_!" he called, hating how rough his voice sounded, hating what he was doing, hating every part of this. "Just—please, just give me your money!"

She didn't answer, only screaming into the night: " _HELP_! SOMEONE, _PLEASE_!"

Any other night and _he_ would be running off to help. Was there anyone around _here_ that would do that?

The terror of the idea struck him—what if someone else _was_ here? What if someone came to her rescue, and attacked him? Took him to the police?

" _HELP_!"

He couldn't let that happen—he had to get this over with, but his broken tibia ached and his fibula was threatening to pop loose again—he wasn't going to be able to keep up with her. _Let her get away_ , a small part of him said, but he shook the thought away—he couldn't do that, but he wasn't sure if he could catch her, either.

Whether by stroke of luck or some devil tempting him, the woman's shoes caught on an uneven cobblestone, and she stumbled and fell.

 _Leave her alone_ , the small part said, but he charged at her anyway. He tried to yank her purse away, but wound up yanking her back up to her feet. Rolling with it, he shoved her against a nearby wall. She was crying.

"Leave me alone...!" she sobbed, as he tried to tug the purse away.

"I-I... I don't want to hurt you, _señorita_ ," Héctor stammered. "Just give me—"

To his surprise, she fought back, shoving at his sternum and jostling his broken ribs. He hissed in pain, but very quickly realized a problem, as the starlight above them reflected off her shining white bones: she was a remembered skeleton, and he was not.

"Get away, get _off_ of me!" she cried, kicking and shoving at him as he struggled to keep hold of her. Her foot struck at his bad leg, and he held back a cry of pain, but the strained noise came through his throat anyway.

Apparently encouraged by this, the woman shoved at his bad arm, and he felt the two cracked halves of it rub against each other.

He couldn't fight her—she would win.

He had to play dirty.

Pulling back the arm that she'd successfully pushed away, he swung his fist at her, swiftly connecting with her skull and knocking it off her shoulders. While she screamed again, he'd successfully stunned her enough to stop fighting. He grabbed her purse, yanked it off her shoulders, and ran.

"No, _no_! GET BACK HERE! _HELP_! _SOMEONE_!"

But there was no one else around, and Héctor bolted off into the night.

He wasn't sure which was heavier: the stolen purse, which he struggled to carry, or his guilty conscience, which threatened to tug his heart down to the ground.

* * *

Héctor did not take the purse back to Shantytown, but sought out a safe spot on the way back to the location where he was to meet the awful men who started this in the first place.

 _Are you sure_ you're _not one of them,_ amigo _?_ a voice within him asked, and he swallowed the lump down again.

Sorting through the purse, he found several useless objects—a book of some sort, a box of candies, a stack of letters... He set them aside for now, continuing to dig through the purse until he found what he was looking for: a wallet.

As he'd hoped, it had a fair amount of money in it—more than he would have expected someone to carry on their person, but... he wouldn't complain. Pulling a meager amount of money out of his own pouch, he put it with the stolen money and began to count.

To his dismay, it was _barely_ not enough. Wincing, he dug through the purse again, hoping he'd missed something, and sure enough, he found a smaller wallet within. For a moment he wondered why she would carry _two_ wallets... until he realized this one didn't carry money.

Smiling faces of living family members peered out at him—brothers, sisters, parents, grandparents, nieces, nephews.

She had a family, too.

He turned to look at the other objects he'd set aside: The book was a sketchbook. The box of candies had a sticker label on the outside with a man's name on it. The letters were all addressed to different people with the same last name, in places in the Land of the Living.

She'd died recently, he realized—possibly on the way to mail these letters. She'd died, and had gotten lost, and he'd...

 _No, I had to do it. It's for Coco, it's..._

Another thought shoved itself to the front of his mind:

 _What would Coco say, if she knew you'd done_ this _to get to her?_

His breath caught in his throat, and when he finally managed to breathe, it came in short, harsh sobs.

* * *

Héctor felt numb as he stood before them. He no longer had the purse; he'd hidden it away, feeling like he couldn't look at it any longer without getting sick.

"Ey, wasn't expecting you to actually do it," the man said, his mouth twisting into an unpleasant grin. "You came through, _amigo_."

 _I'm not your_ amigo. _I'm not_ anyone's amigo _,_ Héctor thought, but said nothing, staring off to the side.

"We could use someone like you."

"No."

"Suit yourself. Oh... but you wanted this, right?"

Again, Héctor said nothing, but didn't resist as the man pushed a large box into his arms. He _did_ cringe when the man slammed a hand onto his back.

"Nice working with you."

Another voice spoke up: "Uhhh... _jefe_?"

They turned to see one of the other men, who had been counting the money Héctor had turned over. His stomach twisted.

"He's just... barely short."

"...Huh. You're right."

Héctor took a step back, wondering if he could make a break for it. "It's... it's only a little," he said. "If you give me another day, I could—"

"Oh, no, no, we had a deal." The man stepped up to him again, the friendly air he'd had earlier now long gone. "You make up the money to us, or we'll make it up with your bones."

"It's... I... I'm nearly forgotten, my bones are barely worth—"

The man lifted Héctor's chin with his knuckle, and Héctor grit his teeth as his head was turned to one side, then another, before he forcibly yanked himself away.

"No... I think you might have something worthwhile on you."

Héctor opened his mouth to protest, just as the man's fist connected with his face.

* * *

It was evening on _Dia de Muertos_ , and Héctor had his scheme ready. His jaw still ached something terrible, but he reminded himself that he'd been lucky.

One tooth was a pretty small price to pay for being able to see his daughter.

 _But what about—_

He shut down the voice again. No, focus, he just had to finish putting his plan into action, and then he could cross the bridge, and see his Coco, and then he would never have to think about the rest of this terrible, terrible week ever again.

"Hey, that's—"

" _You_!"

Instantly recognizing the voices, Héctor seized up in terror—no, this couldn't be happening, the police couldn't have found him _this_ early—

"What do you think you're doing here, Rivera?! What are you doing with that?"

With a surge of panic, Héctor bolted, leaving behind the materials he'd fought so hard to retrieve, and any hope of seeing Coco that year.

He'd failed.

* * *

Héctor sat on the edge of his hammock numbly, having no other seat in his shack anymore. _Dia de Muertos_ wasn't even over, but he couldn't even enact his plan—couldn't even go anywhere near the bridge. The police were clearly on the lookout for him—perhaps _someone_ had given them a description of him as a forewarning.

He shuddered, one arm wrapped tightly around himself while his other hand massaged his jaw.

"You're back early."

Nearly falling backwards off his hammock, he looked up in shock to see Chicharrón standing in the doorway. The old man could move quietly when he needed to. " _S... sí_ ," he stammered, fighting to get back into a seated position again. "It's... it's not a good year."

He sat back, and the hammock immediately twisted, dumping him out the other side. He groaned, but made no effort to get back up.

Chicharrón stamped closer, grasped him by the heel, and yanked him away from the hammock. "Up."

Shakily he pushed himself back up to his feet, but couldn't keep his back straight for the heavy weight in his chest. Cheech looked him up and down, frowning, and Héctor sighed. "I didn't lose another rib, if that's what you're wondering."

"Then what _did_ you lose?"

Perceptive. Héctor grimaced, showing his teeth, and turned his head to his right, so Cheech could see the missing tooth on the left side of his bottom jaw.

With a deep hum, Chicharrón turned around, stamping his way out the door. He didn't need to speak for Héctor to know that he wanted to be followed. Not particularly feeling like wallowing alone in misery tonight, he limped out after him. He would've snatched a bottle on his way out, but he'd sold _that_ too a few days earlier.

To his surprise, Cheech immediately turned and climbed up the ladder (actually a series of boards nailed to the side of his house), sitting up on the edge of Héctor's roof, and Héctor joined him. The shack wasn't particularly tall, but it was still a nice view regardless. The old man produced a bottle that he'd evidently been hiding in his rib cage and took a deep gulp from it before passing it to Héctor, who gladly took a drink himself.

The alcohol took some of the weight off of his heavy heart, but it didn't make it go away entirely. It was better than nothing, at least, and Héctor and Chicharrón sat in silence for some time. No questions about how he'd lost his tooth, or why the night had been so terrible (other than the obvious). Just silence.

It was comforting, for a time. But the memories and thoughts of the past week didn't fade—of his failures, of Coco, of what he'd done. The latter especially still haunted him; every time he closed his eyes, he could see the woman's terrified face and hear her voice.

The comfort was soon gone, and the silence became suffocating.

"Cheech," Héctor finally said, voice choked. "Have you ever screwed up?"

"You think I'd be here if I hadn't?" Chicharrón snapped, yanking the bottle away and taking a swig, draining the last of it. He tossed the empty glass into the water below. "...Yeah. I have."

"What... do you do?"

"What _can_ you do?"

Héctor snorted, leaning back to look at the stars, but it was cloudy tonight. It took him a moment before he realized Cheech was staring at him, and he gave a start.

"Wasn't a rhetorical question."

Oh. Héctor rubbed his jaw again, massaging the spot where he'd been hit. He couldn't go back to those men—there was no way he could get that money back without risking them trying to steal anything else from him. They may have already spent the money on who-knows-what anyway. He thought back to the woman, but he had no idea where she was staying. Even if he did, there was no way she would want to go anywhere near him. He couldn't blame her for that; he wouldn't want to go anywhere near himself either, after that.

"Well," he started, forcing a laugh. "I could... never do that again."

" _Pshaw_. Everyone screws up eventually."

Héctor shuddered. "No. Not like... not like what I did."

Shrugging, Chicharrón looked out over the town. "That it, then? Nothing else you can do?"

He thought about it further... and then he remembered. "Actually... I think there is."

"Yeah? What's—"

Héctor made to climb down off the roof, forgot he'd been drinking, lost his balance, and slid down off the inclined surface and into a pile of bones on the ground.

"Hm," Cheech grunted, staying up on the roof and tipping his hat over his eyes before leaning back. " _Idiota_."

* * *

He'd hid the purse away, in the midst of some fake plants, beneath the plastic wood chips that surrounded them. It took him a while to find the exact spot, and he earned himself a few odd glances when people saw him digging around. ("I dropped something here," he would explain, which wasn't _technically_ a lie.) After a few hours of trying different spots, he finally unearthed the purse, carefully emptying it of any plastic chips before slinging it over his shoulder.

The next part of the plan was risky, but he knew a way to make it slightly easier. He swung by Ceci's place—her apartment, rather than her studio, and nearly bumped into her as she carried a basket of offerings to her door.

"Héctor?!" she cried, scrambling to keep a hold of the basket. "What are—ugh, I don't want to deal with your schemes tonight—"

"I—I know, Ceci, but please...!"

"I actually have the night _off_ tonight, and for once—"

"I _know_ Ceci, but I just—"

"Why are you wearing a _purse_ anyway?"

"Ceci, _por favor_ , I really, really need your help—just one thing, _one_."

He must have looked really desperate, because Ceci sighed, dropping her shoulders. "Fine. _One_ thing," she said, stepping through the door to set the basket down. "What do you need?"

"I need... an outfit."

* * *

It was a nicer outfit than he'd expected—a warm cloak with a hood that he was sorely tempted to keep, but he'd promised her he'd bring this one back. To make sure he'd keep his word, she'd kept his goatee, which worked well enough, given he was disguising himself anyway. She'd also agreed to brush his wig, peppering it with some silver hairspray to make him look older. Instead of keeping the purse slung over his shoulder, he carried it in his arms, occasionally looking it over as he walked, rehearsing in his mind what he was going to say.

Still he felt uneasy as he reached the police department, and forced himself to walk through the doors without limping. A woman glanced up at him as he set the purse on the counter.

"I found this discarded near the street," he said, trying to hide the fact that his leg was in agony, as well as his terror that they would recognize him here. "Did... someone report a missing purse?"

After a brief conversation, the woman said she'd get it sorted out—a few people _had_ reported missing purses recently. Héctor nodded, grateful, and left the building, nearly forgetting to mask his limp. He _did_ limp back to Ceci's, though, exchanging the borrowed outfit for his original and his goatee.

"What were you doing, anyway?" Ceci asked, as he stuck his goatee back on. She was a lot less short with him than usual, and he chalked it up to the fact that he'd actually returned the outfit intact.

"Had to... return a stolen purse to the police," he said, quickly brushing his hands through his hair in an attempt to knock the silver out of it. He only succeeded in dusting the palms of his hands silver. "The police and I are, um... not exactly on good terms, heh, so I had to go in disguise so no one recognized me. They'd think I was up to something otherwise."

"You usually are," Ceci remarked, then swatted at his hand when he tried to brush it through his hair again. "Stop that, you'll get that silver everywhere." When he sighed, she crossed her arms. "You returned it, didn't you? What's there to be upset about?"

Good question. "Just... tired," he lied. He was hoping he'd feel better after returning the purse, but all of that woman's money was missing. Even if he'd been able to put it back, it wouldn't erase the fact that he'd chased the woman down and hit her.

He did have one extra thing added to the purse, however: a note.

 _I'm sorry for what I did. My daughter would never have wanted this. I hope you can enjoy your time with your family, on both sides of the bridge._

It didn't change what he'd done, but for now, Héctor hoped it would be enough.


	14. Outnumbered in a Fight (Miguel)

Hiya folks! We're nearly done with this! Here's a shorter one for you. Thanks to Jaywings and Dara for beta-reading!

Just one more oneshot after this one, and then I'll be done with this challenge I set for myself. But until then, I hope you enjoy this one!

 **Prompt: Outnumbered in a Fight**

 **Characters: Miguel, Abel, Elena, post-movie (pre-epilogue)**

* * *

"Abel?"

Miguel's cousin looked up from his textbook—he was studying for a big test, and Miguel hated to bother him, but he was _pretty_ sure this was going to drive him crazy if he didn't ask for help. "Um... could you... help me with a computer thing?"

Abel made a face, tossing his textbook across the table. "Sure. Can't be worse than studying for history, I guess."

Grinning, Miguel hurried off to the living room where an old computer sat in the corner, a pair of more modern headphones hooked up to it. The latter was a _very_ recent addition, purchased shortly after the music ban was lifted. Before then, their computer had no sound at all—the speakers had immediately been tossed as soon as they'd acquired it. Now that it was equipped with headphones, many of the Riveras had been taking advantage of it... which was the problem.

"Look at _this,_ " Miguel said, waving a hand at the monitor as he scrolled through Youtube.

Abel squinted at the monitor. "Okay... What am I looking at?"

"Look, it's all history videos... I think those are from Papá, and... and a few music things I like, but there's also..." Miguel made a face. " _Makeup tutorials_." He scrolled past several recommendations with particularly atrocious thumbnails—clearly things recommended to their Tía Gloria.

"Huh. So...?"

"Could you... show me how to sign up? So it can recommend me the things _I_ want? I think I'm gonna go crazy if I have to see another makeup tutorial."

"That's all?" Laughing, Abel gently shoved Miguel away from the computer and took a seat. "Sure, if that's what you want. But uh..." He glanced around the family room—no one else was there at the moment. "Don't let anyone know I did this for you, all right? You're _kinda_ slightly too young to sign up."

"Pff, just by a month," Miguel argued.

With that settled, he watched as Abel guided him through making an email address (Miguel chose the name "GuitarraYZapatos05"), and, through there, set him up with an account. "And... there," Abel said, slipping off the stool. "You're all done. Just log off whenever you're done."

" _¡Gracias!_ " Miguel slid back onto the stool, and Abel left him to browse the site.

Eagerly he put the headphones on and typed a song into the search bar—he'd known how to navigate the website for some time now, even before the ban had lifted, thanks to his friends showing him videos on occasion when he visited their houses. It was a lot nicer to be able to do it whenever he wanted—looking up songs he'd heard in the plaza and watching videos of people playing them. It was a great way to learn to play the songs, since he'd taught himself to do it by sight. Not to mention, he was discovering a lot of new songs this way (though he sheepishly had to skip over songs every so often—ones he was pretty sure if Abuelita ever heard the lyrics to, she would _re_ -ban music... or at least computers, anyway).

For a good hour or so Miguel listened to different songs, at first paying attention to the videos, and then simply losing himself to the music, shutting his eyes and letting the next videos autoplay. This worked out fine for a while, but then...

 _"What color is the sky,_ ay mi amor, ay mi amor _!"_

Miguel jumped back, nearly tipping backwards off his stool, headphones going askew as his heart hammered in his chest. Even then, he could still hear the familiar voice, and the face on the screen was...

It was a friendly looking face, singing on a stage in front of many adoring fans. Occasionally the man would stoop down to sing a particular line to a girl in the audience, who would swoon over him as he winked. But the last time Miguel saw that face, saw that person, he hadn't looked _nearly_ so friendly.

 _You're not going_ anywhere _!_

He could still feel himself held up by the front of his shirt, yanked closer as the eyes of the man—the one who had once been his hero—glared poison into him.

 _I am the one who is willing to do what it takes to seize my moment..._ whatever it takes.

 _"The_ loco _that you make me, it is just_ un poco _crazy!"_

The fact that both the terrifying skeleton in his memory and the friendly-looking man in the video were the same person made Miguel feel sick, panicked, and very, _very_ angry. Frantically he clicked several times on the screen to get the video to pause, and scrolled away so he didn't have to look at the man's face anymore. He wrapped his arms around his stomach, shuddering, wishing he could make the memory go away. If anyone deserved to be forgotten, it was Ernesto de la Cruz.

Once the panicked pounding of his heart finally calmed, he looked back at the screen. At first he'd thought that he should sign off for now—that was certainly enough videos for the day, and he felt like playing the _real_ versions of his Papá Héctor's songs so he could get Ernesto's voice out of his head. But then something caught his eye, something he hadn't been paying attention to until now:

 _OMG, I love Ernesto! he's so flirty here lol_

 _73 people got a bell dropped on their head_

 _this is my favorite DLC song! he has so many good ones though, what a legend_

 _I still have this one on a record. Ernesto himself signed the sleeve! It's my prized possession._

Comments—hundreds of comments, nearly all of them praising Ernesto for his looks, for what a great person he was, for "his" songwriting talent. Miguel felt his face flush in anger as he read more and more of them _,_ all of these people who thought that Ernesto was the songwriting genius, and _not_ his Papá Héctor...!

A part of him recalled that it had only been a month since _Dia de Muertos_ , and the word hadn't gotten out to everyone yet, but it didn't make him feel any less angry. Seeing all of these people praise the man who had killed his great-great-grandfather and then tried to kill him not once, but _twice_ was unbearable.

Unable to stand all the positive comments directed at this man, Miguel quickly found where he could leave a comment of his own, and began typing (a slow process with one finger—he hadn't learned to type properly yet):

 _Ernesto is the worst musician! He stole all his songs! Theyre not his! Hes not a real musician!_

Still fuming, he hit the reply button, and sat back on his stool. One comment probably wouldn't do a whole lot against the hundreds of people fawning over Ernesto here, but he'd thought it might make him feel better to say something.

A notification popped up at the bottom of his screen—someone had... replied to his comment?

 _Lol, what? Chill out. I'm sorry you don't like the greatest musician of all time._

What? No, that wasn't...! Frustrated, Miguel typed up another reply: _Hes not! Hes a fraud! Hes not a real musician at all!_

To his surprise, even more comments came in, this time from several people within moments of each other:

 _sure, Ernesto is a fraud, just like Elvis, right?_

 _you! need to use more! exclamation points!_

 _lmfao did you create this account just to troll a DLC video uploaded 7 years ago?_

Great, now everyone was making fun of him... but it wasn't funny—Ernesto really _did_ steal all of his songs, and... He shook his head—this wasn't fair. He typed up another reply to the thread (making sure to use fewer exclamation points, if they were going to make fun of him for it): _Im telling the truth! He stole all his music from my greatgreat grandpa. He wrote all the songs Ernesto sang including this one._

 _OMG. OMGGGGG._

 _no actually dcl is my great great uncle and he told me hmself he wrote all these songs and that if I ever met youtube user ""guitarrayzapatos05" i should tell him that he screwed ur mom_

 _Guys I think this is a kid..._

 _Geez I always hear people say they're related to DLC (wouldn't be surprised, the man supposedly slept around like a rabbit) but this is the first I've heard someone say he stole from their relative. We've got a new nutjob conspiracy theory, fellas._

 _Adsfjsdflasjfsda;lfjlsajslfdjlds;adj_

Miguel wasn't entirely sure what some of this stuff meant, but he _did_ know all these people were mocking him, and with every new reply he felt the anger build in his chest, though his cheeks also felt hot with embarrassment—why was everyone ganging up on him like this? _Your all making fun of me! But Im telling the truth! Ernesto is a bad person and a bad musician! He really did steal from my greatgerat Grandpa!_

 _He stole from my greatgerat Grandpa too._

 _Lol how long do you plan to keep this up kid?_

 _Listen, if DLC really did steal his music, we would have heard about it by now. He died almost a century ago. You don't think people haven't looked into this?_

 _he ded 75 years ago moron_

 _omg do u ever shut up_

At least one person was being civil with him, but even then they were wrong. Still, Miguel had no idea what to say—his family was still fighting to get this case to the news, but with MamáCoco having recently passed and his baby sister nearly here, they hadn't had a lot of time to work on it. But maybe he could bring something else up. He typed as fast as he could, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes:

 _I know he stole it! I found out when I went to the Land of the Dea—_

The screen went dark.

Miguel sat there for a moment, stunned, before he heard a slobbery chomping noisecoming from beneath the desk. Looking down, he spotted a familiar tail poking out near his stool. " _Dante_!" he cried, hopping down to yank the dog away.

As he suspected, the power cord was in the dog's mouth, and he was chewing on it lazily.

He was normally used to Dante getting in the way of things, but he felt angrier than normal at the dog. "No! _No_! Bad dog!"he cried, and swatted Dante on the nose.

The dog whined, immediately dropping the cordand squirming away from Miguel's grasp.

"S-stupid dog, wha'd you do that for? I was just trying to tell them about—!"

"What's going on in here?"

Both Miguel and Dante turned around to see Abuelita hurrying into the room. "I-it's nothing, Abuelita," Miguel said, and frantically wiped at his face.

Abuelita crossed her arms, looking from Miguel, to Dante, to the computer. "Nothing, _huh_! Is that computer box giving you trouble?"

"I—no, it's... it's not that..." He winced as Dante licked at his face and pushed him away.

"Don't give me that. It must be _something_ , if it's got you so upset."

Abel's voice came from the hallway: "Ummm... did something happen?" Stepping into the room, he blinked at the monitor. "Huh, why's it—WOAH!" Quickly he got down on his hands and knees, grabbing the partially-chewed power cord and plugging it back in. Hitting the "on" button on the machine, he heaved a sigh of relief when the computer began to boot up again. "Geez, I thought you'd broken it."

"Oh, is that all?" Abuelita chuckled. "See, it's fine, _mijo_."

Dante looked up at the computer and barked at it, and Miguel frowned, using the stool to push himself back up to his feet. He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes. "Yeah, I... guess."

"Wait... what did you do on there?" Abel asked, suddenly worried. He quickly glanced from Abuelita and back to Miguel, biting his lip.

Sighing, Miguel, wrapped his arms around himself. "I just... saw some dumb people talking... about de la Cruz," he mumbled.

"Ugh, _that_ man?" Abuelita said, shaking her head. Miguel wondered if she realized she said it in the exact same way she _used_ to refer to Papá Héctor.

"People talking about... _oooh_ , you read the comments, didn't you?" Abel asked, and laughed. "Never read the comments, Miguel!"

Feeling his chest constrict, Miguel balled his hands into fists and held them at his side, glaring at his _primo_. "It's not that! They were—they were talking about how great de la Cruz was, and—and when I told them he wasn't great, he was a thief, they... they just made fun of me!"

" _¡¿Qué?!_ " Abuelita shouted, then shot an accusatory glare at the monitor. "I will _not_ have people mocking my grandson! Where are they?"

"No, no, Abuelita, it's not like that." For a moment it looked like Abel would laugh again, but he saw how serious Miguel was about this, and frowned. "Well... they don't _know_ yet, Miguel."

"But I tried to _tell_ them!" Miguel swung out his hands, and Dante whimpered, butting his head against Miguel's leg. "I—I tried to tell them that they were wrong, but they just... kept making fun of me. And there were _so many_ of them! I just..." Finally he brought his arms down, grasping his right wrist in his left hand and staring down at the floor. "I just felt like I was all alone."

Feeling his Abuelita's arm wrap around his shoulders, Miguel looked up to see her looking at him seriously. "You're _not_ alone, _mijo_ ," she said. "Every single one of us here in this family are standing right behind you. We know the truth about Papá Héctor and _that man_ now, and we won't stop fighting until the whole world knows."

"Y... you mean it?" he asked, hope creeping into his heart again.

"Absolutely. He is _family_ , and we won't give up on him."

A huge smile spread across his face as he wrapped both arms around his _abuelita_ , hugging her. " _Gracias_ , Abuelita."

Laughing, Abuelita returned his hug with a bone-crushing one of her own, squeezing around his back until he was left gasping for air. "Now go have fun, _mijo_ , and don't worry about what the people on that computer box say. They'll understand soon enough!" With that, she happily walked back toward the kitchen to start on dinner, leaving Miguel and his cousin alone.

Abel shifted on his feet, glancing from the computer to Miguel before giving an awkward laugh. "I, uh... know we went through the trouble of setting up a Youtube account for you, but uh... maybe you should stick to Spotify."


	15. Slammed into a Wall (Héctor, Ernesto)

Hiya folks! Here's the next oneshot for this collection! And with that... IT'S DONE! THIS IS THE LAST ONE! I AM FREE!

* **thud** *

So... big thanks to Jaywings and Rainy for helping me out with this. You guys are great!

I hope you guys have enjoyed this collection. Remember that if you want to see more of my fics, I'm more active on AO3. See you 'round the intarwebz! But for now...

Prompt: Slammed into a Wall  
Characters: Héctor and Ernesto, pre-movie

* * *

"...so after we're done with this town, I think we can hit a few more stops before we get to Mexico City."

Héctor blinked wearily, still staring out the window. His sigh fogged up the cool glass, but it didn't matter; all he could see was the train station at Santa Cecilia, his little girl rushing up to him and jumping into his arms, and his wife wrapping the both of them into the biggest hug.

"Héctor, are you listening?"

"Oh... _sí_ ," he muttered, shifting in the worn train seat. He pressed his hands against his back, arching it until his spine popped. As he stretched, he took a moment to survey the train: it was quiet other than the clacking of the wheels below them, and the light of the setting sun cast a terrible red glow through the opposite window. He winced. It was too bright to face Ernesto directly, so he stared down at the floor instead. "This is just... so much longer than I expected to be away."

"Heh! It feels like no time at all to me," Ernesto said. He twisted in his seat to stretch his back. "Though this is probably the slowest train we've ridden yet."

"Do you think we'll—"

A piercing whistle interrupted him, followed by a shout from the conductor. Héctor didn't catch the words, but the meaning was clear enough, and he grabbed his suitcase and guitar, Ernesto following suit.

" _Finally_!" Ernesto said, eagerly watching the window. "I thought we'd never get here."

"But I was going to ask," Héctor said hurriedly, finally looking his friend in the face. "Do you think we'll be back by... by my birthday? I want to celebrate it with _mi familia_."

Brow furrowing, Ernesto sat back in his chair. "Oh," he muttered, and sighed.

Something tugged at Héctor's heart; he had a feeling what Ernesto was going to say, and his grip tightened against his luggage handles.

"I... didn't want to ruin the surprise, but the thing is, _amigo_ , I was going to take you someplace nice for your birthday," Ernesto said finally. "We won't be heading back quite yet by then, and I thought it would be good for you to have some fun, you know?"

The train came to a stop, and Héctor rose from his seat, turning away toward the window so Ernesto wouldn't see his expression. This time when he looked outside, all he could see was the train station of an unfamiliar town, streaked red and unwelcoming in the sunset.

"I've been saving up for it," Ernesto went on, patting him on the back as a silent urge to keep moving. He kept pace with Héctor easily as they stepped off the train. "Heh, after all, I don't want to take you to some shabby place and give you food poisoning."

With a roll of his eyes, Héctor elbowed him. "You'll never let me live that down, will you?" But something else Ernesto had said pricked at his memory, and he suddenly gave a jolt, stooping to set down his luggage.

"Héctor?"

He fished through his suitcase for a moment before pulling out an envelope, and sighed. Good, it was still there. Setting it back in the suitcase, he closed it up with just the corner sticking out of it, so he could more easily find it.

"Oh, _that_ ," Ernesto said as Héctor rose to his feet, and followed him out into the city. "You know, at first I'd thought you were writing a new song."

"No, I... haven't been inspired lately." He shrugged helplessly. "But I wanted to get it mailed when we arrived—Imelda needs the money." He swung his guitar case over his shoulder and shielded his eyes as he looked around the town. The streets were woefully unfamiliar and busy, especially with the crowd leaving the train station. "Could you help me find the post office?"

" _Ay, hermanito_ , you can worry about that tomorrow," Ernesto said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We've got to get our luggage to the hotel."

"I don't want to leave the money sitting around!" Héctor cried, shrugging Ernesto's hand away. Suddenly aware that a few people were staring, he lowered his voice as he resumed walking. "You remember what happened last time."

" _Sí_ , but we caught that 'housekeeper' before he made off with it, remember?"

"I don't want to risk it."

They stopped where the street split. Ernesto looked one way, and Héctor looked the other. " _Mira_ ," Ernesto said, pointing down the street. "I already got directions to the hotel when we were on the train. Let's just go there before it gets dark."

"No, I want to go to the post office now—it's getting late, and I don't want to get there when it's already closed."

"Why can't this wait until tomorrow?"

"I want to make sure Imelda gets it as soon as possible, or that... something doesn't happen to it."

"This is ridiculous—I know the way to the hotel, but you don't know your way around here! How are you going to find—"

"By _trying_. I have to," Héctor said, and ended it there, firmly marching in the opposite direction.

"Ugh, _fine_ ," Ernesto called after him. "I'll be two blocks down from here! Come back when you're done."

Watching his friend leave, Héctor heaved a tired sigh. He never understood, did he? He didn't know what it was like to have a wife and a child at home, not sure if they had enough money to eat. The letters Imelda had forwarded to him were always positive, but what if she was… well, what if she was just trying to make him feel better? Ernesto would never understand that—he had no family he needed to provide for.

Still... he'd talk it over with him later, after he dropped this letter off and returned. Two blocks down—he would remember it.

* * *

He did not remember it.

Or, well, he _did_ remember "two blocks down," but hadn't kept track of where he'd been walking, and soon found himself in completely unfamiliar surroundings, in a city he couldn't even remember the name of, who-knows-how-far past the train station, and past twilight and drawing into night. His arms were aching from carrying his suitcase, and he was starting to wish he'd just gone with Ernesto to the hotel to at least set this stuff down.

Heaving a tired sigh, he rested his suitcase against the ground. His shoulders creaked as he rolled them while he surveyed the city around. The streets weren't well lit, but the night was clear, and the moonlight on the cobblestones and houses might have looked pretty had Héctor not felt so utterly lost. He'd been too tired to think to ask for directions until he realized there weren't any other people around. He could've even asked someone on the train, come to think of it...

 _Dios,_ he was too tired for this.

Something shifted against the cobblestones, and Héctor turned just as a man snatched his suitcase and bolted.

"Hey, wh—wait!" Too bewildered to fully panic, Héctor spun around, long legs easily enabling him to catch up with the man. "Wait, wait, wait! _Stop_! That's mine!"

When the man refused to turn, Héctor lunged forward, grabbing the suitcase and knocking the man off-balance. He himself collapsed, knees banging into the hard ground. His arms gripped the suitcase close to his chest.

Before he could catch his breath, someone grabbed the back of his collar, easily hoisted him back up to his feet, and slammed his chest against the nearest wall. Héctor gasped, winded, his head turned to the side, but the terror didn't hit him until he saw the moonlight hit against a metal surface, followed by something sharp poking under his jaw.

"All right, _mariachi_ ," the man said in a low voice, close enough that his terrible breath could be smelt. He pressed the knife's edge closer to Héctor's throat. "Give me the suitcase and I won't have to use this."

His thoughts moved rapidly—he was being held at knife-point, and there was no one around to help him. If he gave up his suitcase, the man might let him go, but that would risk losing his letters from Imelda and Coco, his clothing, his songbook—

"J-just—" he gulped, failing to swallow the lump in his throat, "—just take the money." He truly didn't want to lose it, and part of him was angry for giving into his terror in this moment, but a week's worth of pay was not worth his life—not worth being unable to see his family ever again. "Take the money and... and leave, _por favor_."

" _Just_ the money, eh?" The robber cracked a grin. "Why, what else you got in here, _mariachi_? Some jewelry some _señorita_ gave you to remember her by? Or something even more valuable than that?" He chuckled lowly. "Makes sense you'd have a bit more on you, if you can spare to send something back home."

He'd overheard him talking to Ernesto! Mentally, Héctor kicked himself—this wasn't what he'd wanted! "No, no, that wasn't what I—"

Keeping the knife pointed at Héctor's throat, the man stepped back. "Open it up, then," he said, indicating the suitcase on the ground. "Let's see what you got in there."

He was shaking badly, but maybe if he showed the robber there was nothing else here he'd want, he would just take the money and leave, and he could get out of this alive.

Héctor began to stoop down, watching the man warily. To his relief, the man drew away the knife and removed his hand from his back. Quite literally able to breathe more easily, he knelt down toward the suitcase, preparing to unlatch it.

" _Héctor!_ "

Ernesto's voice, shockingly close, startled him enough to jump to the side. In the split second he moved, he saw the glint of a knife raised to stab him.

In that same split second, the robber whipped his head over his shoulder, where Héctor could now see Ernesto—he'd crept up behind them. Ernesto roughly shoved the man into the wall, snatching Héctor's fallen suitcase and bashing it against the robber's head. He fell, and Ernesto bolted.

Héctor scrambled after him, his heart thudding against his ribcage even as the man shouted something dazedly behind them. They took several sharp turns, and Héctor had to book it to keep up with Ernesto. Just when he felt he could run no further, Ernesto stopped at a doorway. Hector stopped beside him, panting.

"Did we lose him?" Héctor asked between gasps.

"Hopefully." Ernesto pulled a key out of his pocket. "but just in case..." Ernesto yanked him through the doorway before slamming the door shut and locking it. Belatedly Héctor realized it was the door to the hotel.

" _Dios_ ," Ernesto hissed, "what were you _thinking_?"

"I wasn't, clearly." Automatically he shrugged off his guitar case, collapsing onto the nearest bed. (The _only_ bed, he realized—Ernesto was trying to save money, as he'd said earlier.) "I was just... thinking about Imelda, and Coco. How much they'll need that money."

"Not as much as you need a _brain_ ," Ernesto grunted, tossing the suitcase to the floor. But he sighed, taking a seat next to him. "That was too close a call, _hermanito_."

" _Gracias_ , _hermano_ ," Héctor said. He eased himself upright. "If you hadn't been there, I could've... something could have happened."

"It could have." Ernesto stared distantly at a spot on the floor.

For a moment Héctor imagined if their situation had been reversed. The image made him shudder, and he forced it out of his mind.

Finally Ernesto looked back at him. Though he didn't meet his eyes, Héctor could still see a mix of fear and relief on his face (along with something else Héctor couldn't quite identify) as he held himself tensely. "I... I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Eh, probably still be a successful musician," Héctor said, cracking a grin. Ernesto gave a start, but he went on: "And not have to deal with me wandering off in some random town."

Shaking his head, Ernesto slowly dropped his shoulders. "Heh, probably." A smile crossed his face, and he finally looked Héctor in the eye. "By the way, I found out where the post office is."

"You... did? How?"

"By asking the hotel clerk."

Héctor rubbed his face with his hands. He was _not_ on the ball today.

"Now how about sticking with me from now on, _amigo_?" Ernesto said, and jabbed him in the side with his elbow.

"Heh... sure thing, 'Nesto."


End file.
